The Night of the Baleful Baron
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: When a raid gone wrong lands Artie in the hospital, Col Richmond decides it's high time the team of West & Gordon gets a third member. My theory of what a Fifth Season might have brought us, with a canonical one-off character becoming a regular member of the cast.
1. Teaser

_Thanks to Cal Gal for betaing, and to CFVici at FFN for help with the Latin. As for any remaining foolishness, _mea culpa_._

**Teaser **

The night breeze swirled tendrils of fog inland across the waterfront, plucking at the edges of the coats and capes of the occasional passers-by. One man in particular, a dandy in a fine suit and silk hat with a pencil-thin mustache adorning his lip, tugged his gray Inverness cape closer around his shoulders as he swayed tipsily along, whistling an air by the late great Stephen Foster. He paused and smiled at a sandy-haired young man who was puffing on a cheroot as he lounged against the side wall of a building called the Star Warehouse. "Bit nippy t'night, ain't it, sonny?" said the dandy.

The young fellow blew out some smoke, then shrugged in response. "Well, that's New Orleans for you. Muggy by day, nippy by night."

The dandy grinned. "Inspirational, I call it."

That earned him a frown. "Inspirational of what, mister?"

"Why, nippy weather _calls _for a nip! Wouldn't you say?" He chuckled merrily at his own joke.

The young fellow winced. "Look, mister, if you're looking to get drunk — and plainly you're well on your way already — there's a saloon just down the street and around the corner there, the Blue Mermaid." He gestured with the cheroot toward the corner he had in mind. "In fact, tell Pierre the barkeep that Danny sent you and that I'm treating you to a drink — one drink, mind you! — and he'll set you up."

A smile illuminated the tippler's face. "Why, that's neighborly of you, sonny, mighty neighborly! Much obliged, much obliged indeed!" He grasped the young man's hand and shook it warmly. His voice dropped to a whisper as he added, "Good evening, Danny. Are they all inside?"

Danny blinked. "Oh!" Softly he asked, "Mr Gordon? I mean, that _is _you, isn't it?"

"It certainly is!" said Gordon with a loud laugh. He clapped Danny on the shoulder and pulled him along into a brief stroll. "They're all inside?" he repeated his question, sotto voce once more.

"All but me, yes."

"And the leader of the gang as well?"

"Yes sir." Danny's eyes darted around. "Look, I'm sticking my neck out here. I'll be all right, won't I?"

Gordon nodded. "We'll have to arrest you along with all the others so they don't realize you're our informant, but yes, you'll be fine. When the officers rush in, you take a swing at me; I'll be minus the mustache by then, wearing brown and looking like a bum. Swing at me and miss. I'll fall down, and from that my partner Mr West will know which one you are and put you under arrest. He'll be in the brightest blue bolero suit you ever saw."

Danny nodded, attending carefully. "Good. Good. I wanna get outta this gang like you wouldn't believe! I mean, we were just a buncha buddies before, hanging around together, having fun, watching the girls go by, not bothering anyone — and then the _Boss _horned in and took over and turned us into a gang of smugglers! It's…" His words failed him and he shook his head. "Anyway, I want out, and this is my ticket!"

Gordon smiled avuncularly. "We'll take care of you, Danny my boy, don't you worry. Just go on in, and make sure you're surprised — but not too surprised! — when the raid happens."

"Yes sir. Thank you, Mr Gordon!"

Artemus Gordon clapped the young fellow on the shoulder once more and called loudly, "Thanks for the drink, my good man! Around that corner, was it?" And when Danny nodded, Gordon set off for the Blue Mermaid, warbling a version of "Beautiful Dreamer" that managed somehow to be in three or four different keys all at the same time.

Danny watched him out of sight, rolled his eyes and shook his head, then crushed out his cheroot and went inside the Star Warehouse.

The Blue Mermaid, thought Artie as he rounded the corner. That was where Jim would be waiting for him. And Danny was sending him there for a drink? Artie couldn't help wondering if that was simply part of Danny trying to make their encounter look natural — a neighborly gesture and nothing more — or whether there would be a message of some sort included with the drink. At any rate, he would find out shortly.

Artie lurched down the street and made his merry way up to the doors of the Blue Mermaid. He started to amble inside…

And did a double-take as a beer mug, still partly filled with sudsy brew, flew by just inches from his nose to smash spectacularly on the door jamb close to his ear. He had walked right into a bar fight!


	2. Act One, Part One

**Act One, Part One**

_Five minutes earlier…_

A man in a bright blue bolero suit walked into the saloon, took a swift glance around, then bellied up to the bar and laid his black hat down by his elbow. "Whiskey, barkeep," he requested.

The barkeep, a pallid balding fellow, gave a nod as he set aside a mug and the rag he'd been polishing it with long enough to fill the order. The customer flipped him a coin, murmured "_Salud_" as he lifted the drink, then turned to survey the room again as he sipped the whiskey. "Small crowd," he commented.

The fellow leaning on the bar nearest to him, a man who looked far too young to be missing so many teeth, scowled. "What you mean, small crowd, Yankee? What's it to you?"

The man in blue shrugged and waved a hand at the sparsely-populated room. "Friday night in a place like New Orleans, I'd have expected a bigger clientele enjoying a night out on the town, that's all." He took another sip of his whiskey. "Unless they have something else to keep them busy tonight, that is."

Toothless glowered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The man in blue met the glower with a cool and steady gaze. "Just making conversation. It seems strange that the usual crowd who would turn out to drink at the Blue Mermaid on a Friday night wouldn't be here — unless they've found something else to do."

With a snarl, Toothless grabbed the nearest bottle and smashed it against the edge of the bar, shattering it into an impromptu weapon. He lunged at the man in blue.

Only to find that the hand with which he was holding the broken bottle was now twisted up behind his back. A heartbeat later the man in blue slammed Toothless facedown onto the bar, took the jagged-edged bottle from his immobilized hand, and tossed it to the floor. "Is that how you treat tourists here in New Orleans?" the stranger asked. "Why would such simple comments as those I made infuriate anyone, hmm?" He leaned closer. "Unless you have something to hide."

Toothless stared at him, wide-eyed. "N-no. No no, mister. Nothing to hide. Not a thing."

"Nothing at all?" the stranger inquired.

"Y-yeah. That's right." Toothless nodded as vigorously as possible with his face planted firmly against the bar.

"Well, that's all I wanted to know," said the stranger. He released Toothless, both arm and head, and reached to pick up his whiskey once more. And as soon as his eyes turned away from his erstwhile opponent, the big fellow grinned and made a grab at the man in blue.

Bad mistake. Not only did the smaller man slip clear of Toothless' clutches, but he caught the big bruiser's arm, twisted it up behind his back yet again, then gave him a kick in the keister that sent Toothless plunging into a table, splintering it to smithereens.

The man in blue swept a glance over all the other denizens of the Blue Mermaid who were staring in shocked silence at Toothless lying stunned amongst the remains of the table. "Anyone else care to make conversation with me?" the stranger asked.

For a moment nothing happened. Then someone yelled, "Get 'em!" and about a dozen men, big bruisers all, leapt up and charged at the man in blue.

…

And that's when Artie came in. He flinched back out of the trajectory of the flying beer mug, winced his eyes shut for a second to avoid getting either beer or glass splinters in them, then looked automatically in the direction the mug had come from. Ah, there was the thrower, his arm still extended — and then there was a blue blur and the thrower was on the floor.

Artie broke character just enough for a chuckle to escape him. Of course, whenever there was a bar fight, trust James West to be right in the heart of it!

A moment later Artie lost sight of his partner, for a pair of the toughs rushed the man in blue, knocking him to the floor, and then still more piled on top, burying Jim.

One, Artie counted silently. Two… Three…

And up from under the pile Jim burst free, scattering the men in all directions. One of them even came Artie's way, stumbling and staggering, trying to find his balance again. Graciously Artie stepped to one side and held the door fully open with a smile and a wave as the tough fell through the doorway and disappeared out into the night.

Artie shut the door, then looked for his partner again. Yes, there was Jim slinging one big bruiser right into another, sending both toppling to the floor. Obviously Jim had the situation well in hand. Now, thought Artie, to see about that drink.

Tipsily he wove his way toward the bar, deftly avoiding any obstacles — flying bodies among them — that impeded his wayward progress. He arrived merrily unscathed and addressed the barkeep, an aproned figure standing behind the bar assiduously watching the fight with a bung starter clutched in one hand. "Ah, lovely evening, my _hic! _my good man!" Artie slurred congenially.

The barkeep shot him a stormy glance, barely shifting his attention from the fight. "Whadda you want?" he growled.

Artie beamed in return. "A generous soul by the name of Danny whom I met this fine evening — ah, a wunnerful new fr-friend, that Danny! — has magnaminous… er, magaminous… maganana…"

"Magnanimous, you mean," said the barkeep impatiently, his eyes still locked on the man in blue who was now using the chandelier to propel himself into yet another of the toughs, sending that one into a knot of three more, and all four into yet another table, crushing it. The barkeep flinched and let loose an oath under his breath.

Curious, thought Artie, that the barkeep, with an obvious weapon in hand, only stood here watching the fight instead of doing anything to put an end to it — especially with the furnishings being destroyed. "Magnanimous, indeed!" Artie boomed in another bid for Danny's promised drink and the message he had conjectured would come with it. "My bosom buddy Danny offered me a drink on him right here at this enchanting estabish… er, establement…"

Now at last he caught the barkeep's full attention. "You mean to tell me you come in here in the middle of all _this_," and he waved a hand at where Jim had just launched one of the toughs clear over the upright piano, "and you expect me to just hand you over a free drink on your say-so that some absent _Danny _is gonna show up later to pay for it?" He shook his head, scowling. "You got a lotta nerve there, mister!"

And no free drink, thought Artie. No message either apparently. Well, so much for that! Might as well turn around and watch the entertainment.

The fight was plainly dragging on towards its close now, for the bulk of Jim's opponents were measuring their lengths on the barroom floor; only three of the big bruisers were still standing. Or well, "dragging" was in fact the right term to use, for the two of the trio had Jim by the arms and were hauling him over toward the third. Jim dangled between them, head down, boots scraping along the floor. The third bruiser grinned and smacked his fist into his palm, waiting.

At Artie's elbow came the barkeep's voice, muttering, "About time! Let's see 'im get out of this one!" And for his part, Artie was watching carefully even while keeping up his pretense of carefree intoxication. Surreptitiously he slipped a pair of fingers into a hidden pocket, ready to produce a small glass orb he had stored there. A flick of the wrist, and the orb would sail into the midst of the toughs, shatter, and spew forth a cloud of magenta smoke, giving him cover to get Jim out of there.

If he needed to, that was. But just as he palmed the orb, just as the two thugs hauled Jim upright in front of their fellow thug, just as that third thug drew back his fist, ready to paste the man in blue but good — just then a tiny flash lit Jim's eyes and he suddenly came alive again. To the shock of all — and to Artie's concealed joy — Jim used the two fellows holding his arms as supports to kick the third fellow in the chin. And as that one arched backwards to bounce off the floor, Jim yanked the remaining two thugs off their feet and into each other. Their heads knocked together with a dull thud, and down they went.

Jim stood up straight and brushed off his jacket, then started for the bar. With a nod to the barkeep, he took up his glass of whiskey again. "Interesting night life you have here in New Orleans," he commented.

"You… How'd you do that?" gasped the barkeep.

Jim smiled. "Clean living," he replied.

"And I thought I was the actor of this team!" Artie muttered gleefully under his breath, making sure that only Jim would hear him, and at the same time slipping the little smoke bomb back into its hiding place.

Jim lifted the whiskey to his lips, then thought better of it and set it down again. "_Fresh _whiskey, please," he said.

A moment's fury flashed through the barkeep's eyes. He snatched away Jim's old drink and leaned down behind the bar to pour him a new one, his hands, glass, and bottle as well all out of the sight of both the man in blue and the drunk.

"On second thought, never mind," said Jim. He picked up his hat and headed for the door.

He didn't even get close. A hand reached out and grabbed his ankle. Jim fell, twisting as he did to land on his side instead of his face. He kicked out, breaking the grip of the hand that had toppled him, then got a good look at the owner of that hand.

Oh. Toothless again. And he wanted to play some more.

Both Jim and his recurrent opponent sprang up to their feet. Toothless grinned — an appalling sight — and spat on each palm before curling his hands into fists. "You're gonna regret messing with the likes of Haricot, Yankee!"

Haricot? Tipsy Artie turned to the barkeep and inquired innocently, "He's named for green beans?"

The barkeep scowled him into silence. The toothless green bean rushed at Jim, looking remarkably like a bull charging at a matador — and Jim, with the finesse of a matador, held his ground until the last second, then deftly sidestepped.

Toothless crashed into the bar, and Jim clamped him down onto it, face-first as before. "You don't have a very good memory, do you?" Jim asked.

Toothless snarled, much angrier now than he'd been the first time. He shoved himself off the bar and out of Jim's grasp, then spun, leading with a fist.

And the fight was on once more. The pair ranged all over the room, each giving as good as he got, breaking still more furniture and scaring away the last of the remaining customers. Only Artie and the barkeep were left now in the Blue Mermaid as witnesses of the battle — and the floor was littered with a variety of unconscious men, the casualties of it.

"Hey," said tipsy Artie to the barkeep, "he's, uh, he's pretty good, ain't he?"

The barkeep gave his opinion by means of a loud snort in reply.

Grinning, Artie turned back to watch some more.

Somehow Toothless had found a chair that hadn't been broken — yet. He hoisted it over his head and swung it down at Jim.

He never finished the downswing; Jim didn't let him. The man in blue dove at Toothless, catching him in the ribs with his shoulder. Down they both went, chair and all. And there was silence.

Jim rolled to his feet and stood for a moment looking down at the inert Toothless, the chair a couple of feet beyond him, broken to pieces. Jim then surveyed the rest of the wreckage, looking for his hat. He spotted it near the door and crossed to get it.

Just as he leaned down, a yelp of "Watch out!" in drunken tones warned him. Jim spun to see that Toothless _still _wasn't done fighting. The big man was on his feet again, fury contorting his face as he charged once more at James West.

Jim scooped up the hat as the man barreled toward him. Abruptly he skimmed the hat through the air, right at Toothless' face, and when the man's eyes slammed shut automatically, Jim dove to one side and gave the big man a double-hammer to the back as they flew past each other.

Toothless whipped his head around to shoot an incredulous look at his opponent. The turn cost him dearly, for in the split second that he wasn't looking where he was going, he ran smack into the wall. His head caromed off again, leaving a crack in the plaster as the big bruiser wobbled on his feet for a bit before both his balance and his consciousness abandoned him. Down he crashed, and there he lay.

Jim retrieved his hat and put it on. "Good night," he said to the barkeep and headed out the door.

"My, my! Thank you, my good sir, for a wun… _hic! _wunnerful evening!" Artie beamed. "Even without the free drink! You folks here in New Orleans sure know how to enner, uh, ennertain the tourists!" And with a merry wave he followed his partner out into the night, leaving Pierre the barkeep standing behind the bar in what little remained of the Blue Mermaid.


	3. Act One, Part Two

**Act One, Part Two**

Artie made his way outside and paused on the porch. Jim was already halfway down the street to his right, so Artie, in order to maintain the fiction that the two of them weren't together, turned left instead. He wandered along, cheerfully mangling yet another Stephen Foster tune, evincing not a care in the world. He lurched down the street, wended his way round the next corner, and was well along that street as well when a carriage came by. Cheerfully Artie waved at the driver. The carriage stopped and Artie clambered inside. He slurred an address at the cabbie, then settled back.

"Well, James," he murmured softly. "Been having fun?"

The man in blue was seated in the shadows of the opposite seat. "The only thing I did," he said, "was to make a simple observation on the emptiness of that barroom on a Friday night, and someone objected strenuously to my comment."

"The toothless green bean, was it?"

Jim gave a small chuckle. "You could call him that, yes."

"And yet," said Artie, "someone else _didn't_ seem to object at all to that selfsame barroom being turned into a disaster area. Curious, isn't it?"

"The barkeep, you mean."

"Yes. _Notre ami _Pierre watched the fight carefully enough, but did nothing to stop it. It could almost make you think he'd been told to study how you fight, Jim."

"Almost," Jim replied.

"And another curious thing: When I met up with our informant a few minutes before I arrived at the Blue Mermaid, he offered me a drink on him at the very saloon where you would be waiting for me. I thought maybe Danny was trying to get a message to me that he didn't dare pass on to me in any other way. Only when I got in there… No message."

"Unless the fight _was _the message," said Jim.

"Yeah. Unfortunately, that _is _a possibility."

"Our informant, Artie — this kid Danny — just how much do you trust him?"

"Hmm, let's see: Danny DuPree is a shady young fellow who'd sell his eyeteeth to get out of that gang, and likely throw his aged grandmother into the bargain as well, even if he doesn't have one. How much do I trust him? Not much."

"But you did meet with him."

"Right. And he assured me the whole gang was right there in the Star Warehouse, everyone from the big boss on down."

Jim shot Artie a look. "Everyone?"

"I know, that struck me too. Either Danny lied about the whole gang being in the warehouse, or he hasn't met all the members of the gang. And either possibility could cause us trouble." Artie sighed. "You know, it's bothering me, Jim. Here we get sent down here to help out the local police with this pesky gang of smugglers that they just can't seem to pin down, and right on the heels of our arrival, an informant pops out of the woodwork, offering to turn them all in. How can we be sure he's not setting us up?"

They both knew the answer to that: they couldn't.

"I don't suppose we can talk the chief into delaying this raid?" Artie asked wistfully.

"Artie, you worry too much. If it's a double-cross, we'll deal with it. Now, you gave the informant a signal, right? Some means for me to be able to recognize him?"

"Yes, I described what I'd look like and told him to take a swing on me as soon as we get in there. The one who fakes the punch and down I go, that'll be Danny."

"Fine," said Jim.

"Unless…" said Artie. He gazed out at the night slipping past for a moment before finishing the thought. "Unless someone else tries to clobber me before he can."

Jim shrugged. "Well, if that's the case, you'll just have stay on your feet, won't you?"

Artie snorted. "All right, all right. I'll just hafta make sure that when I hit the floor, it'll be from our informant taking me out."

"Mm-hmm," said Jim, and with a sly smile he added, "Good thing you finally learned how to fight without getting knocked out on the first punch every time."

That elicited a full-fledged laugh from Artie. "Well, admittedly I had a pretty good teacher, didn't I?"

"Only the best!" Jim replied immodestly.

They were still grinning when the carriage drew up and the two Secret Service agents dismounted, Artie openly, Jim surreptitiously. By the time Artie flipped a coin to the cabbie and the carriage moved on, Jim had already disappeared into the shadows alongside the closest building and was swiftly heading deep into the alleys.

For his part, Artie tugged his cloak close around his shoulders again and slipped effortlessly back into his drunk act. As he shambled along weaving right down the middle of the street, his voice lifted merrily in the strains of "Camptown Races," he quickly attracted the attention of a cop walking his beat. Scowling angrily, the policeman strode purposefully toward the tipsy dandy, smacking his nightstick against the palm of his hand as he swiftly closed in.

"See here, you rum-soaked sot!" bellowed the policeman as he caught up with the well-dressed drunkard. Pointing his nightstick at Artie's nose, he growled, "All right, get along with you! Go sleep it off afore I run you in!"

"Ah, good evenin', oshiffer!" Artie beamed happily. "Ain't it a bee-youtiful night?" Leaning close and breathing directly in the policeman's face, he added, "You wouldn't happen to know where I can get me a little shnort, would ya?"

The cop recoiled from the rancid smell of alcohol on the man's breath. "Get along home now!" he advised, scowling. "For if you don't, and that right quick, I'll see you to a nice uncomfortable jail cell, so I will, and that double-quick!"

"Jail cell! Jail cell! D'you happen to know whom you are addressin' in that, that disreshpecticable manner there, sir?" Artie drew himself up, swayed proudly, and declaimed, "I am Col Brett Rutler, sir, late of Her Majesty's Fusiliers, and I…"

"Oh, one of _those_," the officer muttered under his breath. "Come along then, Colonel. It's time for that nice uncozy cell!" He seized the ersatz drunkard by an arm and steered him along the street.

"Unhand me, sir!" Artie demanded, struggling ineffectively in the policeman's grip. "I shall lodge a, a complaint against this unfignidied treatment, an', an' you shall rue the day you laid unshcrupulous hands upon Col Britt Rattler!"

Thinking quickly, the policeman said coaxingly. "Ah, but Her Majesty's been looking for you, Colonel. And she's got a nice new fusil just waiting for you, so you can lead her Fusiliers again."

"Hmm? Whazzat? Hey, izzat so? Well, lead on, oshiffer, lead on!"


	4. Act One, Part Three

**Act One, Part Three**

Minutes later, as the well-dressed sot was led in through the front door of a certain building, a figure in bright blue slipped in through the back way and headed immediately for a particular office.

Up front, the desk sergeant glanced up and cried, "Well, Callahan! And what have you brought me tonight, me boyo?"

"Fella here what had 'im a wee drop too much and needs to be sleeping it off, Sarge." The policeman presented his prisoner before the desk.

"Mm, I see, I see. Ah, but we'll be taking good care of 'im, so we will, eh?" Turning to the prisoner, the sergeant took up his pen and dipped it into the inkwell, then poised the pen to write. "And your name then, mister?"

The dandy blinked a bit owlishly and mumbled… something.

The sergeant frowned. "What's that you say again there? Colonel… Bread-and-butter, was it?" When the fellow only smiled muzzily in reply, the sergeant inscribed the name in his book, then said, "Well then, Col Butter sir, one of the lads'll be seeing you down to the… Sir!"

For at that moment a hand landed on the shoulder of the tipsy prisoner as a voice boomed, "This one _I'll _be seeing to personally, Sergeant."

The desk sergeant, and Officer Callahan as well, had both snapped to attention and were now saluting stiffly. "Y-yes sir, Chief O'Mara!" cried the sergeant. "He's all yours!"

The chief of police shifted his grip to the dandy's upper arm. "Come along then, you!" he said and led the fellow off through the halls of the police station to the chief's own office.

…

Once there, and once the door was shut firmly behind them, the chief's manner changed. "Well, Mr Gordon, here we are!" He released Gordon's arm and rounded the desk to have a seat.

From behind the door, Jim West stepped out as well. "Were you followed, Artie?"

"Not that I saw. And none of the police seemed aware that anything's going on tonight either. At least, not that I could tell." Artie turned to the wall mirror and set about peeling the mustache from his lip.

"I suppose there's a reason for that," Jim said, addressing now the police chief. As usual, Jim nearly did a double take; the chief had never yet failed to draw a second glance from both West and Gordon, mainly because he bore an uncanny resemblance to one of their fellow Secret Service agents, the lean and lanky Frank Harper.

"Exactly," said the chief. "Only a handful of my very best men know anything about tonight's operation at all, and even _those_ don't know the when or the where of it. We don't want to risk tipping off that smuggling gang." The unspoken additional word of "again" hung in the air like a pall of gloom.

"We'll get them," Jim West assured him.

"Our informant just confirmed that the leader himself is there in person, and said all the gang is there as well," Artie added as he shrugged off his cloak and stripped away the outermost layer of his clothing to reveal that beneath the fine duds was a ragged old suit of brown. "We don't intend to let them escape you this time, Chief O'Mara."

"I certainly hope not, gentlemen. Five times now we've gotten word of that gang's hideout, five times! And each time when we've attempted to raid the place, the man and his gang have slipped through our fingers. Each and every time! But now, gentlemen, with your gracious help — oh, this _must _be the final raid, the one that nets us that wily criminal once and for all!"

"We understand, Chief," said Jim.

"That's why so much secrecy, even from my own men," said the chief. He brought out a handkerchief and mopped at his brow. "New Orleans has always been a wide-open city, and of course if you know our history, you know there was a time when we owed our safety to the likes of Jean LaFitte!"

"One of the most famous pirates ever, yes," said Artie.

"He aided our fledgling nation against British invasion during the War of 1812," Jim noted.

"And even more recently," added the chief, "there were the blockade runners during the, ah, Late Unpleasantness. But now here we are dealing with smugglers again, sneaking in items of all kinds from jewelry to, well, weeds! Laughing at authority, sneering at the usual tariffs that honest businessmen pay. And making monkeys of me and my men!" The chief shuddered all over.

"Well, we'll have them under arrest in short order," said Jim. "Artie, you ready?"

Artie was still in front of the mirror on the chief's wall. Having made sure that every remnant of his first disguise of the night was gone, he had brought out a little box of brown powder and was speckling some of it onto his chin and cheeks, simulating five o'clock shadow. That box disappeared into his pocket as he told his partner, "Sure, Jim, sure."

"Then let's go."


	5. Act One, Part Four

**Act One, Part Four**

Danny DuPree was doing his best not to be antsy — or at least his best not to show it. Nearly an hour had passed since he'd spoken to Mr Gordon, and the thought of _Any moment now!_ was ringing so loudly through his brain that he was sure some of the others around him were going to start hearing it too.

"Hey, Danny! You in or not?"

Danny jumped slightly, then put on a sheepish smile. "Yeah, yeah, I'm in." He dropped a couple of chips into the pot, then glanced around the huge warehouse again.

Part of the gang was busy packaging up the goods that had been smuggled into town, hiding each item inside some innocuous other item, getting them ready to be moved, whether to a destination here in New Orleans or somewhere further north such as Baton Rouge, Knoxville, or Jackson. While the packers worked, most of the rest of the gang, like Danny, were passing the time playing poker while they waited for the Boss to give the word to take the goods and move out. And some few, a very select few, were holed up in the Boss' "office" — it was little more than a cubbyhole in the corner with stacks of boxes surrounding it to serve as walls. Within the office were the Big Dogs — Bruno, Deke, and Mugs — listening as the Boss outlined whatever tonight's plan was, while sitting at the desk inside the office little old Sœur Mathilde laid out one deal after the next of her tarot cards, interrupting the Boss at intervals to point at the cards and make suggestions of how he should alter his plans.

He never failed to take her suggestions.

The Boss though — oh, but he was a strange fellow! In all the time he'd been a member of this gang, Danny had never seen the Boss' face, for it was ever hidden behind a mask — and that of a skull. Some of the gang, those who knew more of the local superstitions than Danny did, claimed that the Boss looked like the infamous Baron Samedi. And some even dared to call the Boss by that name, which invariably made the Boss laugh and Sœur Mathilde scowl. It was not wise, or so she would scold them, to invoke the name of one of the _Loa _in jest; what if the real Baron should hear them?

"Danny!"

"Hmm? Huh?"

"Pay attention! Are you still in?"

He shrugged. "Naw, I fold," he said and tossed in his cards, noticing only too late that he'd had a full house. He scraped back his chair, pressed his fists against the small of his back for a moment, then said, "Believe I'll just stretch my legs for a bit, fellas." He sauntered off, casually working his way toward the door.

He had barely gotten within ten feet of it when frantic hammering echoed into the room from outside, accompanied by a voice hollering, "Help! _Help! _Lemme in! Lemme in afore they… _Help!"_

Danny froze. Behind him, those who had been working instantly shoved the smuggled goods out of sight while those who had been relaxing sprang to their feet. And from the office boiled forth the Big Dogs and the Boss.

"You there, Danny!" commanded the Boss. "Whoever that is, get rid of him!"

"Yes sir!" Danny drew back the bolt on the door and growled, "Get out of h…"

Instantly a disheveled old bum dressed all in brown, his cheeks dark with five-o'clock shadow, shouldered his way into the room and slammed the door behind him. "Y'… y' gotta hide me, mister!" gibbered the bum, leaning his whole weight against the door, his eyes crazed with fear. "They's after me. They's after me!"

Danny's eyes lit up at the sight of the bum, but he caught himself immediately. "C'mon, fella, what's your problem?" he asked gruffly.

"Indeed!" came the Boss' sepulchrally deep voice as the skull-faced man strode toward the door. "_Who _is after you?"

"Why, uh…" The bum's eyes raked over the apparition before him and he did a double-take. "Well, _they _is. The… the little green men with the great big bald noggins. Said they was comin' after me to take me off to Mars! But, uh…" Again he gaped at the Boss' skeletal face, then said, "On second thought though, I druther take m' chances with them Martians!" He turned and grabbed at the doorknob to run out again.

Just in that instant several of the men in the warehouse rushed at him, some of them seizing him by an arm or a leg, while the others jammed the door shut again.

And in the next instant all Hell broke loose. From the back door of the warehouse a man in brightest blue charged in, followed by a troop of some two dozen policemen, all the officers blowing whistles or crying out, "You're under arrest!"

Danny was stunned by the sight for less than a second. He then turned and flung a fist at the bum's face, in his excitement forgetting to miss. _Crack! _The bum sagged in the arms of the others holding him, and as Danny winced and sucked at his knuckles, the others let the bum drop to the hard floor as they hurtled themselves into the fray.

Jim had been watching of course to see who would hit Artie, and now his eyes flamed. That had not been a faked punch! He pelted through the surging crowd, dodging a haymaker here, belting a bad guy with a fist there and an elbow elsewhere. Someone grabbed him and spun him around, someone a foot taller than Jim and twice his weight. The big bruiser's knuckles barely grazed Jim's nose as the agent seized his opponent and fell backwards, carrying the big guy with him. A well-placed foot in the fellow's gut launched him over Jim's head and into one of the stacks of boxes that comprised the Boss' office. _Crash!_

That noise only blended into the general confusion of the impressive clamor of destruction. Yet above all the great din arose a single voice — female, masterful, angry — spitting out a concise phrase that was neither English nor French, a phrase that the majority of the fighters did not hear precisely nor did they care whether they understood it or not.

But it did not matter. On the heels of that phrase a roiling cloud of saffron mist filled the warehouse. The policemen, the man in blue, and yes even the bum lying unconscious on the floor — all began to cough.

To wheeze.

To choke.

To fall.

The last one standing was the man in blue. Still fighting to keep himself upright, he reeled toward the bum near the door, rasping out, "Ar… Artie…"

Then he collapsed, his hand outstretched toward his partner.

Danny looked around. All the men who had raided the warehouse were out cold, and all the members of the gang were still on their feet, conscious and laughing. And no one laughed louder or more merrily than the Boss himself.

"Good!" he barked. "Mathilde _ma chère_, you have saved us once again. Now, my men, gather up everything and let us be gone!"

Less than ten minutes later, the warehouse was swept clean of all remnants of the Boss' gang. All that was left were a multitude of broken boxes and the unconscious officers of the law.

Slowly, coughingly, the policemen stirred and began to rise. The man in blue groaned, then rolled over and shoved himself up to his feet. He took a stumbling step toward his partner, paused to give Chief O'Mara a hand up, then dropped heavily to his knees at Artie's side.

"Artie. Artie, c'mon, wake up." Jim gave his buddy a shake.

Artie rolled with the motion but did not wake.

"Artie, c'mon!" Frowning, Jim shook him harder, still with no results.

"Artie!" Jim patted his partner's cheeks, then lightly slapped them.

Still nothing.

Jim sat back on his heels, staring down at Artie. Everyone else was waking up from the knock-out gas; why not Artie?

Coming to a swift decision, Jim sprang up to his feet, tucked his arms under Artie's shoulders and knees, then lifted him, cradling him close. "Someone get that door for me!" he ordered.

"But, Mr West, what are you doing?" asked Chief O'Mara.

"I'm getting Artie to the hospital as quickly as possible!"

**End of Act One**


	6. Act Two, Part One

**Act Two, Part One**

"Jim."

James West glanced up as the door opened and closed. "Col Richmond," he said.

Jim's voice was cordial yet weary, prompting the colonel to cast a sharp look at his best agent for a second. The man's face was haggard, and he obviously hadn't had a wink of sleep all night. Gesturing toward the hospital bed on which lay his second-best agent, the colonel asked him, "How is Artemus?"

Jim sighed. "He hasn't awakened yet."

Richmond frowned. "Let me get this straight: someone in the gang used some variety of knock-out gas on you that put you and the policemen under for about five or ten minutes, didn't affect the gang members at all, and yet…"

"And yet it's kept Artie out for hours," Jim finished for him. "And, no sir, I don't know what they used, nor do I understand why it hit Artie so much harder than it did anyone else."

"What does the doctor say?"

Jim spread his hands. "Only that time will tell. All I can assume is that he's as stumped as we are. At any rate, his advice was to wait and see, and to hope that Artie wakes up again shortly."

Richmond snorted and sank heavily into the seat next to Jim's. "Not the most encouraging prognosis I've ever heard," he commented.

Jim didn't answer; his eyes said everything as he silently kept vigil over his partner lying comatose on the bed. Richmond's eyes as well locked on Artemus for the next several minutes as each man watched intently for any sign of improvement, or of movement, or of the return of consciousness.

They were granted no such sign.

"What about the smugglers?" Jim asked at length.

Richmond shook his head grimly. "Nothing. No one has seen hide nor hair of any of them since they abandoned the Star Warehouse. We haven't a clue where they went!"

Jim nodded solemnly, not the least bit surprised. "And the informant?"

"No word from him either."

Jim drew a long breath, then let it out noisily. "You know, Artie gave me a sign by which I would know which man was our informant. He was to fake-punch Artie, and then Artie would fall down and play possum. Only… Colonel, I've fought alongside Artie for a long time now. I know how he falls when he's faking it, and that was _not _faked. Artie was already out cold before he hit the floor, and well before the knock-out gas got to him. And all I can say is: if the guy who hit him was our informant…" Jim's hands clenched convulsively into fists.

Col Richmond glanced at him. "A double-cross, perhaps?"

"I don't know. But if I spot that young fellow again, believe me, he will have a _lot _of questions to answer!"

"At the very least!" the colonel agreed.

Unobtrusively the door opened and a nurse entered balancing a tray which she carried over and set down upon a small table by the bedside. She fussed over the patient for a bit, checking his pulse, his vitals, his eyes.

"Has the doctor said anything further about Mr Gordon's condition, nurse?" asked the colonel.

The nurse, a somber young brunette with a somewhat prominent jaw line, shrugged silently and shook her head. She busied herself with wetting a rag and bathed the patient's face with it, making sure the men keeping watch over Mr Gordon didn't see that she had a small vial hidden in her palm, nor that she was dribbling the contents of that vial into the comatose man's mouth.

Done. The nurse nodded to the onlookers and left the tray behind as she withdrew from the room. At the door she paused for a brief moment to look back at the man on the bed, then quietly closed the door. Now she strode down the hall and entered a closet where she quickly shed the nurse's hat and dress, yanked the primly bunned brown wig off his head, and ruffled out his sandy hair. He leaned back against the wall for a moment to catch his breath, murmured, "Thank God that's over!" then, clad in the flannel shirt and dungarees he'd been wearing under the dress the whole time, the young fellow slipped out of the closet and left the hospital entirely without once looking back.


	7. Act Two, Part Two

**Act Two, Part Two**

Colonel Richmond stepped out after a bit to hunt down the doctor in order to pump him for more information. Jim remained at Artie's side, wearily waiting, waiting…

A soft groan reached his ears, and Jim sprang to his feet.

"Ohhh… Anybody see that wagon that hit me?" muttered a voice.

"Artie?"

The patient lifted a hand to cover his eyes and forehead. "Or maybe I fell off a wagon instead," he amended. "Whatever the case, there's an awful lot of tapioca in the ol' noggin right now, that's for sure."

"Artie, you're back!" Beaming, Jim grasped his partner's other hand.

"Back? Back from where? Boy, Jim, you look like you've seen a ghost!" He uncovered his eyes to smile up at his partner and gave him a light punch on the arm. Then his smile faded. "Oh," said Artie. "I get it: _I'm _the ghost you're seeing! Or rather, you thought I was going to be a ghost. Is that it?"

Jim's smile tightened, but he stated confidently, "You're awake. So you're going to be fine. End of discussion."

Artie glanced around. "I'm in a hospital. I hate hospitals. Beginning of new discussion: why am I here?"

A shadow of worry flitted through Jim's eyes. "You don't remember?"

"Mm, that's right, I _ought _to remember! Let's see…" Artie cast about for a moment, tracking down the most recent thing he could recall. Then his hand came up to touch the incipient purple mark on his jaw, and he scowled. "Oh, now I remember!" He snorted and added, "Guess someone better teach young Danny how to throw a fake punch, huh?"

"I'll volunteer," said Jim.

Artie laughed. "I bet you will! But will it be a fake one you use on him, James?"

Jim grinned. "What do you think?"

Artie was chuckling, looking much more his usual self, when the door swung open. "All right, Jim, I just spoke with the doctor, and… Artemus!"

Both agents glanced over at the figure now staring with glad amazement in the doorway. "Why, Col Richmond!" called Artie. "I didn't know you were here."

"I didn't know you were awake!" the colonel replied. Recovering his composure, he strode forward to clasp Artie warmly by the hand. "But how do you feel? The doctor was just saying he'd be by shortly to check you over. Is there anything we can do for you, anything we can get you?"

"Why, in fact, there certainly is, Colonel!"

"And what's that?" Richmond asked.

With a good-natured grin, Artie responded, "You can get me out of here!"

Richmond sighed. "Well, your bantering skills haven't been diminished, I see. But after the scare we just had with you, you're not setting foot out that door until the doctor issues you a clean bill of health!"

Artie's face twisted into a mask of tragedy. "That long? But, Colonel, can't I recover on the train?"

"You know how Artie is," Jim interjected. "He hates languishing in a hospital."

"Preferring to languish on the Wanderer, yes," the colonel deadpanned.

"Precisely, sir!" said Artie. "Hospitals — ugh!" He shuddered. "Hate 'em all, and all the trappings that pertain unto 'em! Oh, well… except for the pretty nurses, of course. Speaking of which…" he added, sitting himself up a little higher on his pillows, a bright twinkle sparkling in his eye.

For the door had opened again, admitting this time a pair of the aforementioned pretty nurses who were accompanying a stern-faced man in a white lab coat.

"Well, well, well," said the man briskly. "Let's have a look at Mr Gordon and see what… why, Mr Gordon! You're awake!" The man advanced toward the bed, grasped the patient's hand firmly for a moment, then shifted his grip to the wrist to check Artie's pulse. "I am Dr Archer," he said, now drawing down Artie's lower eyelids one by one and peering closely at his face. "How do you feel? How did you feel upon awakening? And how long ago was that?"

"Thirsty. Groggy," said Artie, ticking off the answers in order. "And five minutes ago, or perhaps ten?"

He glanced at Jim, who nodded. "Closer to ten, I'd say."

"Hmm," said the doctor. And for the next half hour, that was the bulk of his remarks. He listened to Artie's chest and hmm'd. He thumped Artie's knees, causing him to kick by reflex, and hmm'd. He poked and prodded, peered inside Artie's mouth and ears, had him extend and flex the majority of his muscles groups, all while making no more conversation than a multitude of deeply thoughtful hmm's.

"Well, Dr Archer?" Col Richmond prompted at last.

"Hmm?" The doctor broke off from fixing Mr Gordon with a lengthy meditative stare.

"Your diagnosis, sir," said Jim. "What caused him to be unconscious for so long?"

"Yes, and am I free to go?" Artie added, getting right to the crux of the matter.

"Ah. Hmm. Well." Dr Archer frowned mightily. "Well, in answer to the question about my diagnosis, I would say that this is complex matter, very complex, and until and unless greater light may be shed upon it, I would give my initial diagnosis that this is a case of _Non Habeo Scientiam_. Hmm."

Artie blinked and made a small noise, one that earned him a ferocious scowl from the doctor. "And as to the question of whether you are free to go, Mr Gordon, that answer is Yes — provisionally Yes."

Artie perked up and crowed out, "Hallelujah!" while Jim asked the obvious: "And the provision?"

The doctor took up the chart on which he'd been noting down all the particulars of Mr Gordon's health and scanned it for a few seconds. "Hmm. Yes. _Two _provisions, in fact. One is that he be able to leave our hospital under his own power."

"Done!" cried Artie. He threw back the covers to leap from the bed and demonstrate that he was perfectly capable of doing just that, only to get an eyeful of the brevity of his hospital-issued nightshirt — as did everyone else in the room. Each of the nurses instantly hid her face behind a hand, albeit with a twinkle in her eye. With a squawk of "Eep!" Artie dove back under the sheet and yanked it up under his chin. "Um… well… when I have my clothes back, that is."

"And the other provision?" said Jim.

"Ah, _that _is that Mr Gordon have a nurse to attend to him. Constantly, for the next, say, seventy-two hours."

Artie broke out into a grin all over again. "Oh, I get a private nurse as well? Glorious!" He smiled at the two pretty nurses who had been aiding the doctor. "One of you, perhaps?"

"I'll see to the task of providing you with a full-time nurse, Artemus," the colonel broke in. "Doctor, may we speak privately?" And the colonel escorted Dr Archer out the door, the nurses trailing after them.

"A private nurse, James my boy! Just what I've always wanted!"

"You've had nurses tending to you before, Artie. Remember your recent broken leg?"

"Indeed I do! Ah, such a lovely pair of young ladies! Veritable Florence Nightingales!"

"Yes, and before two days were past, you were hobbling around on your own and had dismissed them both."

"Well… yes… But I was better! I didn't need them hovering around anymore."

"Oh, that's you all over, Artie. You love the attention, but you also love your independence."

"Hmm. Maybe so. But," he added, laying back and lacing his fingers behind his head, "for the nonce, I'll be pleased to have the attention."

"As long as she's pretty."

"Well, naturally, James, naturally!"

"All right, gentlemen," said Col Richmond as he made yet another appearance, "it's all arranged. Your private nurse will be awaiting you on the train, Artemus."

"Well, thank you, sir. One of the, ah, young lovelies who was just now attending the doctor?"

"Hmm? Oh no. No, none of the nurses here. No, in fact," and the colonel settled himself into one of the chairs at bedside, "this is a step I've been considering for some time now."

Jim and Artie exchanged a glance.

"Sir?"

"A, a step you've been considering?"

"Oh, yes, for a few months now. You see, Artemus, I've become rather concerned about your health."

"You have?"

"Why? What about Artie's health?"

"Well, let's just review some of your recent cases, gentlemen," said Richmond, "and you might note, as I have, that a disturbing pattern emerges."

Again the agents exchanged a glance. "A pattern, sir?" asked Artie.

"Yes." Richmond lifted his chin to gaze piercingly at Artemus. "A pattern of injuries. Now, granted, I know you two often throw yourselves into your work with reckless abandon."

"We're always getting injured, sir," said Jim. "Beaten up. Knocked out."

"All too many of our adversaries seem to think a good old-fashioned conk on the noggin is the answer to everything," Artie added whimsically.

"Yes, yes, I know that. Those sorts of things are to be expected. But I'm not referring to the workaday sorts of injuries. I'm specifically talking about these recent cases in which you, Artemus, have wound up under doctor's care, and you and I, James, have wound up sitting and worrying at Artemus' bedside — just as we were today."

"We still don't know what the knock-out gas was that affected Artie so badly last night," James began, but he was almost instantly interrupted, both by Artie exclaiming, "Knock-out gas? _What _knock-out gas?" and by the colonel's quelling, "Yes, and I'll expect the two of you to look into that as part of your task of continuing to investigate this smuggling case. Never fear, gentlemen; I am _not _taking either of you off this case!"

Artie leaned close to Jim and hissed, "There was a knock-out gas involved? I don't remember that part."

"But my point, gentlemen," the colonel went on, "is that in recent months we've had such occurrences as the, ah, the broken leg during that case involving the self-propelled… what was that thing called? A juggernaut? There was also that Paradox business, in which you were _both _shot in the leg…"

"Yes, Emmet Stark's revenge. You may recall that in Artie's case, the bullet to the leg came from _my _gun," said Jim.

"But only because Stark had me drugged and disguised with his own face to fool Jim," Artie put in.

"Yes, that's true. But there was also the Buckley case. You spent quite a while in the hospital recovering from the, shall we say, friendly hug you received from the local gorilla in wrapping up that one, Artemus!"

"But it's all in the line of duty," said Jim.

"It's not like we go looking to get hurt; it's just part of the job!" Artie protested.

"I know," said Richmond. He sighed and reiterated, "I know. But these injuries have come one right after another lately, Artemus, and…" He paused, licked his lips, and plunged ahead. "…and, no offense, but you're not getting any younger. Don't get me wrong: you're a good agent, an excellent agent, and I'm not looking to put you out to pasture. No, nor to recall you again to Washington and chain you to a desk. We tried that lately, and while it did give you a respite from the rigors of field work, we all know that you were champing at the bit to get back on the train and back at Jim's side — which is, of course, where you belong."

"Well, thank you, sir," Artie said, but his face plainly showed he wasn't sure where this line of discussion was going, nor whether he would like the destination once the colonel finally arrived at his point.

"I'm not the only one who has been concerned about your many injuries lately, Artemus. The president himself has expressed his dismay and has — _ahem! _— **encouraged **me to find some solution. And so…" And here the colonel leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his vest. "…I have come to the conclusion that you need some help."

"Need?" said Jim.

"Help?" said Artie. "Are we still talking about my private nurse?"

Richmond gave a self-satisfied smile. "Nurse. Aide. General factotum. In other words, gentlemen, whereas we customarily send out our agents in partnerships of _two _men together, for the foreseeable future, the team of West and Gordon will be including a _third _member."

"Third member?" Artie turned to stare at Jim, his face aghast.

"Begging your pardon, Colonel," said Jim, "but this certainly does not sound like a simple matter of engaging a private nurse for Artie for a few days."

"No. That's because it isn't," the colonel said, rising from his seat. He went to stand at the window, looking outside. "While the third member to whom I have alluded does have a certain hands-on background in practical medicine, in making this assignment I also wanted to choose someone from within the ranks of the Secret Service, someone trained in our ways, familiar with our rules and methods." He now glanced back toward them and added, "Someone you both know."

"Someone we…?" Artie turned to Jim, bafflement all over his face.

Richmond smiled reassuringly. "Now, gentlemen, it's not as if you've never had a assistant on your cases! That business with the giant tuning fork, for example. I lent you Arden Masterson at that time. She proved to be an able assistant, did she not?"

Now for the first time both agents relaxed. Arden Masterson! "Oh, yes sir, she was invaluable help on that case, particularly for Artie," said Jim.

"Not to mention easy on the eyes," said Artie happily. "I'll be pleased to welcome her aboard the Wanderer again."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Richmond. "But she's not the assistant I have in mind."

Artie's face fell. "She's not?"

"No." Richmond folded his arms and leaned against the wall near the head of the bed. "No, for the time being, Miss Masterson is on loan to the Academy at Denver. I have another agent — well, a fledgling at field work, granted, although there was one memorable occasion upon which someone who shall remain nameless inveigled this temporary assistant into joining him out in the field. But as I said, I do have in mind someone other than Arden Masterson to aide you gentlemen for the foreseeable future."

Jim's eyebrows knitted as he ran through a mental list of those who might fit the description the colonel had just given — and one name shot immediately to mind. "Not Bosley Cranston?" he said just a touch sharply.

To this Col Richmond chuckled. "Well, you'll find out soon enough. I've given your new assistant orders to meet you at your train." With a smile and a nod, he added, "Good day, Jim, Artemus," and took his leave.

"Oh, great," muttered Artie. "A third member of our team? A, a fledging field agent, still wet behind the ears? Ohhh!" He flung off the covers and hopped to his feet. "That's all we need!"

"Well, it might not be so bad, Artie," said Jim, watching as Artie padded across the room barefoot to throw open the door of the wardrobe. "And you do get your private nurse."

"Hmph! Yeah, you'll notice that every time I asked if she'll be pretty, the colonel dodged the question. And a field agent! Probably won't even _be _a she!" He went through all the shelves and drawers in the wardrobe, then smacked the doors closed again.

"True. I brought up Bosley Cranston, and he laughed."

Artie shuddered. "Oh, that's what I want! Bosley's skinny mug bending over me on my bed of pain…" He thumped at his nose with a forefinger, then headed for a small chest in the corner and squatted beside it to rummage inside.

"Ah, Artie…"

"Yeah, Jim?" He swatted this lid closed again, and glared all around the room.

"What are you looking for?"

"My clothes, of course! You think I wanna head home to the Wanderer dressed like _this?" _He gestured expansively at the hospital gown. "There's more cotton tucked into the top of an aspirin bottle!" And seeing the grin that was spreading over Jim's face, Artie stomped closer and shook a finger at him. "I don't have the legs for this!"

"Sure you do, Artie. A little pasty white, perhaps, but…"

"_Vuuussshhh!" _Artie threw up his hands, then headed for the door.

"All right, all right!" said Jim. "I'll go out and ask what became of your clothes. Although considering you were dressed as a bum, they may well have tossed it all into the incinerator."

"Great Scott, I hope not!" Artie turned a look of horror Jim's way. "I had a few of my special little surprises stashed in that suit!"

"Surpri… I'll be right back," said Jim, and he charged from the room to go find Artie's clothes before anything permanent could happen to them.


	8. Act Two, Part Three

**Act Two, Part Three**

"Here he is, Boss." At a location far from the Star Warehouse, Bruno opened a door and shoved someone through it.

"Mm, Sergeant Macready, is it not?" The Boss rose up slowly out of his chair and leisurely rounded the desk. "Won't you sit down, Sergeant?" He waved a hand at a straight-backed chair before the desk.

The desk sergeant from the police station swallowed nervously and stayed on his feet. "Look, sir, I'm sorry about all this! You know I woulda sent word of the raid if I'd known of it! But they… they ain't saying nothing about raids no more, not in the station. They musta figured out you've been getting advanced warning, so now they're only telling the boys who've been picked to take part in the raid itself. None of the rest of us knew a thing. There weren't even rumors!"

The lips of the Boss' skeletal face curved into a smile. "Then you're saying you won't be able to warn us of any future raids, Macready?"

Macready's anxious fingers kneaded at the hat in his hands. "N-no sir. Not unless I'm tapped to be in on the raid meself."

"I see," purred the Boss. He shot a glance at Sœur Mathilde where she sat at the side of the desk, dealing out her cards. Without looking up, she stretched out a finger and tapped one card in particular. The Boss took in the face on that card, a face remarkably similar to his own, before nodding and turning to Macready again. "Then you'll be of no further use to us. What a pity." He picked up the card and tossed it to the desk sergeant.

Macready took one look at the card and dropped it as if it had burned him. "N-no!" he stammered, his face ashen. "I… I can still be of help to you, th-that I can! I swear it! I'll… I'll find some way to, to learn when the next raid will be! Honest, Boss, I will! I will!"

"Will you?"

"Yes! Oh, yes sir. You'll see. You'll see!"

"I'm sure I will," said the Boss, still smiling at his informant. "Bruno," he called.

The Big Dog had never left the office. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Take Sergeant Macready away and be sure to pay him." His eyes in his skull-like mask met Bruno's. "Pay him well for his services," he said, adding in a hissing stage whisper, "_Severance _pay."

Bruno nodded. "You got it, Boss."

"But, ah…" The Boss slipped an arm around Bruno's shoulders and leaned in close. "Bring back the uniform; we might find a use for it."

Again Bruno nodded, then led Macready away to a place where no one would ever find him.

As soon as those two were gone, the Boss crooked a finger, and now Deke appeared at his shoulder. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Who was the last one to arrive at the Star Warehouse last night, just before the raid?"

"We were, Boss."

He waved that away. "No. No. Someone went out, after we got there, but before our, ah, visitors showed up. Someone stepped out, then came back in again. Who was it?"

"I don't know, sir. I didn't see anyone leave."

The Boss turned and regarded Deke coldly. "_You _didn't. But _I did_. Now who was it? Find out!"

"Yes sir!" Deke hurried from the office to consult with the first members of the gang who were beginning to steal into this new location.

Just a few minutes later he was back. "It was Danny, sir. Danny DuPree."

That cold smile curled the Boss' lips once more. "Danny…"

…

"Ah, now this is more like it!" Artie said appreciatively. "Where'd you get these?" He smiled at the fine suit rolled up inside the gray Inverness cape.

"Apparently Chief O'Mara had it sent over for you; you'd left it in his office, you know." Jim folded his arms and waited as Artie began slipping into the dandy clothing.

"Well, I'll have to be sure to convey my thanks to the good chief!" Artie pulled on the pants, then paused. "But what about the bum suit? They didn't incinerate it, did they?"

"From what I was able to gather," said Jim, "someone turned it over to the night janitor for him to get rid of it. They're pretty sure he took it home with him, since he said something about a charity drive."

Artie winced. "Oh, that's not reassuring!"

"Well, a messenger has been dispatched to go pick it up and get it back to us. But, Artie…" Jim reversed a chair and sat down on it, his arms resting on the chair's back.

"What?" asked Artie. He made a disgusted face as he tossed the ridiculous hospital gown across the bed and slid on his fine ruffled shirt.

"As I was trying to track down that outfit, I ran across the day janitor throwing a huge fit at some of the nurses. He was yelling about someone using his storage closet for a changing room, and said he wasn't going to put up with that sort of nonsense."

"Changing room? But don't they _have _changing rooms to use? I mean, I'm sure they arrive at work in uniform to start with, but, well… A hospital's a messy place, you know. I'm sure some of the ladies have to change out of one uniform and into another because of… Well, you know…"

"Unfortunate occurrences, right. But here's the oddest thing about it, Artie. Not only did this fellow find a nurse's hat and dress in his closet…" Jim leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "…but he also found a wig. A brown wig, done up in a bun."

"A wig! What?" Artie finished buttoning up his vest and shrugged into the jacket. "Why would a wig be…? Ohhh!" His eyes met Jim's. "Someone was here in this hospital in a disguise!"

"Exactly. But who? and why?"

Artie shook his head. "You think it has something to do with our case?"

Jim fixed him with a piercing look. "Do you really think it would have _nothing _to do with it?"

"Hmm. Good point."

…

Danny wandered down a certain back alley, checking the addresses one after another. He had a sack of beans tossed over his shoulder with a tag saying to deliver it to the kitchen door of the Bel Homme bistro. Hmph. Bistro indeed! This part of town would have nothing but dives; catch him ever eating beans or anything else in a greasy spoon like one of these!

He hefted the bag on his shoulder and wondered what was hidden in among the beans. Not that he was curious enough to find out. No, he was smarter than that, that was for sure!

Pity though that the raid hadn't worked out. Still, no one had twigged to the fact that he'd had any part in it. And so here he was, back to playing delivery boy for the Boss.

Ah, the Bel Homme. He stepped up to the back door and knocked.

The door opened barely an inch. "_Qu'est-ce que c'est? _What you want, eh?"

Danny nodded toward the very obvious burden on his shoulder. "You ordered some beans. I'm delivering 'em."

"Hmm. There." The door opened about halfway and the man behind it pointed at the floor just inside the door. "Toss it down there."

"You got it!" Danny rolled the bag off, letting it land heavily. And along with the sound of beans shifting, he distinctly heard a _clank_.

Quickly the door slammed in his face. "Hey!" he hollered, rapping on the door again. "Hey, don't I get a tip?"

The door remained stubbornly closed.

"Huh," Danny snorted. "Well, how d'you like that? No bit of gratitude for the working man, no sirree!" Grumbling, he headed off back the way he'd come.

He didn't even notice that he'd acquired a shadow.


	9. Act Two, Part Four

**Act Two, Part Four**

Artie fired off a jaunty salute to the good doctor as he left the hospital, as promised, under his own power — then climbed immediately into the carriage Jim had hired to take them back to the train. "There!" said Artie, settling back into his seat. "And may I never darken the doorway of a hospital again!"

"Like them or not," Jim observed sternly, "you being in a hospital is far preferable to the alternative. I thought I'd lost you. Again."

"Lost me! Oh, c'mon, James. The two of us are practically indestructible. Why, between the pair of us, we've got more lives than all the cats and kits in the St Ives riddle put together!"

"Maybe. But that knock-out gas really laid you low."

"Yeah." Artie looked somber for a moment, then brightened again. "Well, we'll just have to find what they used, that's all. And then I can make up an antidote for it." He leaned back in the cushions and breathed in a healthy lungful of non-institutional air, then added, "You really think the colonel's assigned Bosley Cranston to be our assistant, Jim?"

"Well, I don't know many of the non-field agents in the Secret Service, and Richmond did say that we've both met this particular one. That is… you have met Bosley, haven't you? Jeremy was filling in for you during that one case when Washington sent Bosley to, uh, 'help' me."

"Ah, during my late unlamented desk-duty days, right. Yes, I met Bosley in Washington shortly before Col Richmond shipped him off to San Francisco to, uh, 'help' you — and I agree to the quotation marks around the word 'help'! Do you know what Bosley did during the first brief meeting _I _had with him?"

"No. But judging from the fire in your eye, I take it I'm about to."

"In five minutes, James — just five, mind you! — Bosley managed to knock two stacks of paper, both of them about six inches tall, off my desk. And then in trying to pick them up again, he scattered the papers all across the floor and hopelessly muddled them together. Now, these two stacks of paper were the entire contents of my In basket and my Out basket, meaning I was going to have to sort them all out and replace them in the proper baskets again, you see. Oh, but that's not all! In the course of placing about half the papers back up onto the desk, he swept the inkstand _off _of it and spilled the ink all over the floor — as well as onto most of the papers that hadn't yet been picked up. He also got ink all over his hands, and despite my increasingly earnest entreaties that he just 'Please, leave it all be!' he _insisted, _James_, insisted _on continuing to be of 'help' to me! By the time I ever got him out of my office, there was ink everywhere…" He frowned, remembering the look of the place. "Including a few splotches on the ceiling; I never did quite figure out how he managed _that_. Ink everywhere, papers no longer legible and therefore ruined, the floor so badly ink-stained that Richmond wound up having it fitted with a carpet to make the room presentable again. Oh, and on top of all that, when Bosley _did _at last leave, it was with his left foot firmly jammed into my wastepaper basket. I had to requisition a new one!"

Jim grinned. "You know, I remember now that Bosley said he met you just before he persuaded the colonel to send him out west to help me."

"_He _persuaded the colonel? _He _did? Is that how he told it? No no, James, _I_…" Artie poked himself hard in the chest with his thumb. "_I'm _the one who persuaded Richmond to ship that man away from Washington! All I needed was for Bosley to keep popping into my office for his little chats! Oh, no no no…"

"I see. So you're the one I have to thank for that one-man wrecking crew showing up in the middle of my stake-out and losing for me the one and only lead we'd managed to scrape up so far on that case!"

"Yeah, well… I didn't know Richmond would saddle _you _with him! I just suggested letting the man get the little taste of field work he'd been begging for, that's all!"

"Oh, he got a taste, all right! A taste that will last me — and no doubt Jeremy Pike as well — the rest of my life!"

"Sorry, Jim," said Artie contritely.

Jim shook his head. "No, that's all right. Bosley did turn out to be helpful in the end."

"Ah, that eidetic memory of his? Yeah, that's a handy knack!"

"And for that matter, it turned out he knew some karate."

"Did he? I didn't know about that."

"Mm-hmm. Oh, and he also knew this trio of highly intelligent young ladies whom he offered to introduce to Jeremy and me."

"Highly intelligent…"

"Yes, he assured the two of us that these young ladies were most stimulating, able to converse on almost any subject with the most amazing erudition, and…"

Artie sat up straighter and eyed Jim with a keen glance. "Now… they wouldn't happen to be the Gaffney sisters, would they?"

Jim returned the glance. "You know them?"

"After his return to Washington, Bosley ran into Richard Henry, Ned Brown and myself, and he offered to introduce us to three young ladies who had traveled back east with him, three sisters who match the description you just gave to a T!"

"Did you meet them?"

"Me?" Artie chuckled. "Are you kidding? After a description like that, I could just imagine what a bunch of horse-faced harpies they'd have to be if Bosley found them fascinating! No, I begged off — after all, I made the odd-man out — and let the three of them enjoy their evening of erudition." He caught the look in Jim's eye. "What?"

"Nothing," said Jim, smiling to himself. "Nothing at all." At least he and Jeremy weren't the only ones to avoid the lovely Gaffney sisters sight unseen!

"Hmm. Well. Bosley Cranston. If he's the assistant Col Richmond is providing us with, we should find out shortly, eh?"

The carriage turned in at the station and disgorged its passengers before the depot. Jim tossed the cabbie a coin, and he and Artie headed into the railroad yards to return to the Wanderer.

As they approached the train, a man in denim hopped off the side of the engine and drew near, scrubbing the grease from his hands with a large red bandanna. "Afternoon, Mr West, Mr Gordon!" he called.

"Afternoon, Orrin. How's the old girl?" Jim shook their engineer's hand.

"In fine fettle and raring to go. But I understand the case ain't closed yet?"

"Nope, not yet." Artie too shook the engineer's calloused hand.

"Good to you see up and about though," said Orrin. "They told me you was in the hospital, Mr Gordon!"

"Well, I'm fine now, and…"

"They?" Jim interrupted. "Who are they?"

"Oh, them young fellers Col Richmond sent round this morning. Bunch of carpenters, they were. Yeah, I had to let 'em into the varnish car."

Jim and Artie exchanged a glance. "To do what?"

"Why, they brung in a load of two-by-fours and whatnot, and built a bunk bed in your stateroom, Mr West."

"They did what?" said Jim.

"In _Jim's _stateroom?" said Artie. He turned a frown toward his partner. "Well, I can understand the bunk bed since there will be an extra man on the Wanderer and not enough staterooms to go around, but I sure would've thought if anyone was going to a share a room with the new kid, it would be me!"

Orrin grinned. "I take it from that you ain't neither one of you seen the 'new kid' yet, huh?"

"No," said Jim.

"Why?" said Artie.

The engineer's grin broadened. "Well, once you take a gander at who's moving in, I'm sure you'll understand." He jerked a thumb toward the varnish car behind the two agents. "In fact, here's the new kid now!"

Both Jim and Artie heard the sound of the rear door opening and turned to have a look. Instantly the visions that had been in their heads of Bosley Cranston as their new assistant burst like soap bubbles, to be replaced by a new vision, a far more palatable one. And yet exactly what Col Richmond had promised them, for this was indeed a fledgling field agent both men had met!

The "new kid" descended from the varnish car and swept forward toward the agents with a friendly smile, saying in a charming contralto voice, "Good afternoon, Mr West, Mr Gordon. I presume Col Richmond told you I'd be here. And I'm so glad to see that Mr Gordon is feeling better! That is… you _are _feeling better, aren't you, Mr Gordon?"

For Artie was staring, simply staring, his eyes a bit glazed and his jaw a bit slack.

At his side, Jim gave him a subtle poke with an elbow and murmured, "Try not to trip over your tongue there, Artemus."

"Hmm? What? Oh!" Artie snapped his mouth shut, then opened it again only a moment later as he took the hand of the ravishing young brunette before them and exclaimed, "Why, Miss Collingswood! What a pleasant surprise!"

**End of Act Two**


	10. Act Three, Part One

**Act Three, Part One**

"Ellen Collingwood," said Jim as he now took the young woman's hand from Artie's. "Of course. I should have guessed you'd be the assistant with whom Col Richmond was providing us."

"Yes, you've helped us here in New Orleans before," Artie chimed in. "But you know, when the colonel mentioned that Arden Masterson wasn't available to help us on this case, it never occurred to me he'd be sending _you _instead."

"Miss Masterson? Well, her loss is my gain, gentlemen!" the pretty brunette responded merrily. "Ever since Mr Gordon here coerced me into veiling myself and taking the place of Miss Montebello to lure out her would-be kidnappers, I've found myself eager to get out of the office and into the field again. I believe you gentlemen infected me!"

"With the acting bug?" Artie smiled smugly. "But of course!" He offered his arm to escort the young woman to the train.

"There's much more to field work than putting on a veil though, Miss Collingwood," Jim added, also offering his arm.

With a smile she slid her left hand through Artie's proffered elbow and her right hand through Jim's to be escorted to the train. "Oh yes, Mr West. I remember that very well! When the fighting broke out, you may recall, the masked mastermind of the kidnapping plot charged after me with a knife, and I was compelled to defend myself. I…" A troubled look flashed over her face and her steps faltered for a moment. Both men paused with her, but she recovered herself rapidly. "I shall never forget that split-second in which I found an opening and gave my pursuer a push. Just a small push to get the knife away from me, you understand, and yet, because we were the top of the stairs… Well, you saw. You both saw."

"Yes, the masked mastermind, as you termed her, fell to her death," said Artie as he opened the door to the varnish car and gestured the young woman in before them.

"Which is why you need more training to work in the field," said Jim, following the girl inside and leaving Artie out on the landing.

"Which is why I've been _getting _more training, Mr West, for several months now." She removed her hat and placed it on the desk, then seated herself on one of the sofas and added, "This assignment assisting the two of you will be the culmination of my training, and that at the finest of finishing schools with the top professors imaginable." She smiled up at both men, a twinkle in her eye. "And I certainly hope to be an apt pupil!"

"Well, you'll certainly prove to be our _top _pupil," Jim remarked dryly.

"Yes, as you'll be the entire class," Artie added. He caught the look Jim was giving him, a silent request for a private conference, then glanced around the parlor at the numerous pieces of luggage and a trunk, all of them sporting a monogram of _EC_, that were stacked here and there. "Now, if you're to be in my stateroom, Miss Collingswood," Artie said smoothly, "I suppose I'd better pack up and move my things over to Jim's room. Right, Jim?"

"Right. I'll give you a hand."

Miss Collingwood hopped to her feet. "Might I help?" she offered.

"Oh, no no," Artie declined quickly.

"It won't take us long," Jim added. "And then you can have the stateroom to yourself." He caught Artie's arm and the pair disappeared down the corridor and into the room that would no longer be Artie's.

Artie opened the wardrobe and started pulling out his suits. "So what is it, Jim?" he asked.

Jim grabbed a valise and swept everything from the top of the dresser into it. "I'm becoming less and less happy with this new arrangement," he said. "When I thought we were getting Bosley… well, at least he knows something about how to handle himself in a fight. But Miss Collingwood!" He shook his head.

"I hear that! Granted, she is much easier on the eyes," he chuckled as he began removing his folded shirts from the dresser, stacking them neatly on the bed.

"She says she's been in training for months. But what sort of training? I can understand Col Richmond expecting her to assist us in secretarial work, and even in watching over your health, although what sort of nursing background she may have, we don't know. But _she _expects to work with us in the field."

"Yeah. And so does he, really."

"Right. I had the impression our new assistant would be able to jump in and offer practical help with the case itself if you were to be injured again. The last thing we need is to be working a case and find ourselves needing to babysit a girl!"

"Yeah, and that's not all," said Artie.

"Ah?"

"Well, it's not just a matter of having her around during the cases themselves, it's this!" and he gestured at the stateroom he and Jim were rapidly denuding. "She'll be living with us. A single young woman traveling on a private train with a pair of bachelors! I just… I don't know about that." Artie's face twisted into a mask of dubiety.

"I'm sure Miss Collingwood considered the effect this assignment might have on her reputation before she accepted it, Artie."

"Rep… Reputation? Oh, I wasn't thinking about that."

Jim turned a look at him. "Well, if that's not what you had in mind, what _are _you thinking about?"

"About _us! _Here we are, two bachelors, used to having the train all to ourselves! You don't care if I forget to cover my mouth when I yawn, or if I let loose with a hearty belch after a good meal…"

"I do mind some of the other noises," Jim put in teasingly.

"Oh, ha ha ha. And you don't mind if I, well, if I scratch where it itches. With a young woman around, though, I'll have to be civilized every waking moment, Jim! I mean, a man needs some time to _relax_, to be…" He chuckled. "…a little _un_civilized!"

"And yet you proposed to Lily," Jim pointed out.

"Well, yes. But that's different. A wife _knows _she'll have to put up with a man at his worst," said Artie. "And there's another thing: you and I are used to changing our shirts right out there in the parlor area while we discuss various aspects of our cases. We won't be able to do that anymore."

Jim shrugged. "We can do that in my stateroom."

Artie nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. It's just that…"

"Though we'd probably have to take turns changing, I suppose. These staterooms are a bit close."

"True, true. But that's not the point I was getting at. If we're in here discussing the case, Miss Collingswood won't be able to listen."

Jim grinned. "She could stand right outside the door and eavesdrop."

That earned him a frosty glare.

Jim chuckled. "Still, you're right. Miss Collingwood participated in some of our discussions of the near kidnapping of Miss Montebello when she aided us before, and her knowledge of the rumors about the opera house and of the divas who had previously sung _Lucia _there turned out to be invaluable."

"Hmm. I guess it did."

Jim glanced at him. "Artie, you mean that's not the point you were getting at with this either?"

"No, I was thinking about later, when I came up with the idea of using a substitute for La Bella Montebello as bait for the would-be kidnappers, and how Miss Collingwood praised my idea, calling it marvelous! If she can't listen in on our discussions…"

"Oh, she can't openly admire your genius! That was your point all along, wasn't it, Artie?"

"Oh, well…" He shrugged bashfully.

"Your towering genius, combined with your shy, retiring modesty regarding your unrivaled intellectual gifts. Naturally Miss Collingwood must have the opportunity to bask in your brilliance."

"Well, naturally!"

Jim shook his head and gave Artie a little punch on the shoulder. "Well, if we've got everything, let's get all this shifted over to my room."

Artie glanced around and nodded. "Looks like that's all, yes." He slung his suits over his shoulder and took up the valise, while Jim grabbed several stacks of folded clothing and headed up the corridor to his room with them.

Once they were inside, Jim dumped his armload of clothes onto the lower mattress of the new bunk bed, swung himself up onto the top bunk, and said, "Not too bad. Dibs on this one."

"Fine, fine, take it," said Artie. He slid Jim's suits to one side in the wardrobe to make room for his own, then set about refolding everything else before tucking them into whatever space he could find in the dresser.

Jim looked down from the upper bunk at his longtime partner and said, "All jesting aside, Artie, I have a lot of reservations about this new arrangement. _Serious _reservations."

"Yeah, well… For all that my reasons may be a bit, well, less than serious, I'm not entirely sold on this either. I just hope…" He sighed.

Jim rolled over and addressed his next statement toward the ceiling. "I just hope she doesn't get herself hurt, a girl trying to do a man's job."

"Yeah," Artie agreed. "Or for that matter, that she doesn't get one of _us _hurt! She's mighty green, and green agents are a hazard to themselves and everyone around them."

"I know," said Jim. "And unfortunately President Lincoln's famous statement of everyone being all green alike doesn't apply here."

"Ain't that the truth!" Artie nodded. "Because if there's one thing we know about that gang we're up against, it's that they are most definitely _not _green!"

A knock on the door interrupted them. "Excuse me, Mr West, Mr Gordon," said Miss Collingwood when Artie opened the door, "but a messenger has just dropped off a package."

Artie's face lit up. "Hey, my bum suit must have arrived!"

…

It was a bit early in the day still, but Danny decided to go out of his way to swing by the Blue Mermaid. He paused to light up a cheroot down the street from the saloon, keeping a casual eye on the place.

Oh yeah, it was closed up tight. Danny took a long puff, then sauntered around to the back and wandered down the alley.

There was a little spot just to the right of the back door. Yesterday, the last time Danny had come down this alley, he'd seen a symbol in red chalk on that spot, the signal that he was to meet that night with Mr Gordon. He had lounged against the spot for a bit, and when he'd walked on, the chalk mark was gone.

There was no such chalk mark today. Danny sighed quietly. He was really hoping for a new meeting. He needed out so badly, he could taste it!

"Hey, Danny!"

Danny DuPree jumped a mile and whirled — then laughed in relief. "Oh, Pierre! It's you."

"Well sure it's me! Who else would be hauling the trash out the back door of the Blue Mermaid?" The barkeep winked, then peered closer. "Hey, you ok there, Danny boy? You look peaked."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Long night. Long day."

"And it's only afternoon! Well, look." Pierre glanced both ways along the alley, then jerked his head toward the dark interior of the saloon's back room. "How 'bout you come on in and have you a quick pick-me-up. Eh?"

"And get you in trouble for serving before business hours?"

Pierre chuckled. "Can't get in trouble if no one catches me at it. C'mon in. You sure look like you could use it."

"We-ell…"

"On the house," Pierre coaxed.

"Oh! Well, _that _being the case!" Danny grinned.

Pierre laughed. "Yeah, when does Danny DuPree ever turn down a free drink?"

"Or a free anything!" Danny clasped the barkeep's hand warmly, then went on inside.

Behind Danny's back, Pierre glanced down the alley again, spotted a fellow idly cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, and nodded to him once. The fellow nodded back, folded the blade and slipped it into a pocket, and vanished around the corner.

That done, Pierre shut the back door of the saloon, being careful not to lock it, and hurried into the barroom just in time to hear Danny give a whistle of amazement.

"Holy cow, Pierre!" he exclaimed. "What happened in here?"

…

Jim, Artie, and Miss Collingwood came through the swinging door into the parlor area. "The messenger left already?" Jim asked. He strode past the desk upon which lay a package wrapped in brown paper and had a look outside.

"Oh yes, Mr West. I signed for the delivery."

Artie lifted the package, noting his own name written across it. "A man's handwriting," he said as he undid the knot and laid the string aside, then unwrapped the paper.

"What did the messenger look like?" Jim asked.

"Look like? Do you think that's important?" asked Miss Collingwood.

"It might not be," said Jim. "And then again, it might. You said we were to be your instructors. A field agent should miss nothing, not even the faces of the invisible people."

"Invisible!" She laughed. "But he wasn't invisible; I saw him plainly."

"Then describe him," Jim challenged.

"I… I… Well, he was in some sort of uniform, the kind of thing a messenger would wear. Nothing particularly unusual. Do you often run across invisible people out in the field?"

"Why, all the time," said Artie with a chuckle. He had flattened out the wrapping paper and now grasped the old brown jacket he'd worn the night before, lifting it and shaking out the wrinkles. "Yep, my bum suit!"

"Sometimes even literally invisible," Jim added. To the continued puzzled look on Miss Collingwood's face, he explained, "By invisible people, I mostly mean people who work in unobtrusive jobs like messenger boys," and he gestured at the door, "or waiters and waitresses. Maids. Newsboys. Shop clerks. People who are there and useful, but don't stand out. They're very useful for many reasons, not just because they do their jobs, but because they may notice things others didn't. They can also be imitated by our enemies to get close to us, and as you can see by Artie's bum suit there, sometimes we become invisible people as well and… Artie?"

Artie, still holding the jacket, was blinking a lot and swaying on his feet. "I… Jim, suddenly I don't feel very…"

"Artie!" Jim bolted for his partner.

For Artemus Gordon had collapsed.


	11. Act Three, Part Two

**Act Three, Part Two**

"Oh, hey hey hey!" said a happier-than-usual Danny. He set his glass down with a little "Oops!" as some of the liquid sloshed out. His one free quick pick-me-up had by now turned into four, and he was feeling spirited indeed. "Here's a good joke, Pierre ol' buddy: A rabbi and a priest walk into a bar, and…"

"No no no," Pierre interrupted. "I've been tending bar for over twenty years now, _mon ami_, and believe me, I have heard them _all _a thousand times over."

"Not this one, you haven't! I just now this minute made it up. A rabbi and a priest walk into a bar, see, and the rabbi looks around, turns to the priest, and says, 'This place sure looks familiar. I think we've been here before!' " Danny grinned at the barkeep, waiting for a reaction.

He got one all right, but not the sort he was expecting. Pierre was looking beyond Danny toward the back way through which they had both entered the barroom, and the way the barkeep was staring at the back sent a chill crawling all the way up Danny's spine. The young fellow whirled on his chair to see what had caught Pierre's eye.

There were three of them standing in the doorway from the back room, all three of them fellows Danny recognized immediately. Two were lower-level knuckle-crackers, big bruisers the Boss paid to keep the others in line. And they were flanking one of the Boss' three Big Dogs.

All the conviviality drained right out of Danny DuPree. His mouth suddenly bone dry, he stammered, "_Bo_… Uh, _bonjour_, Mugs. How's, uh, how's it going?"

Mugs took a casual step forward. "Whatcha doing here, Danny? You know the Boss don't like to be kept waiting."

"W-waiting?"

A small but cruel smile curved Mugs' lips. "You finished that delivery job over an hour ago. Right?"

"Well… uh, yeah. That was the only job I'd been assigned though, so I thought I'd just, y'know, mosey around, wet my whistle." He jerked a thumb at his glass on the bar, then added pleadingly, "C'mon, Mugs, I had no idea the Boss was looking for me. No one told me."

At this point Danny glanced at Pierre and realized suddenly just what the barkeep had been up to, plying him with so many free drinks. "It was your job to keep me here where they could find me, wasn't it?" he murmured under his breath.

Pierre didn't answer, only looked away.

"Hmph. Remind me to cross you off my Christmas card list!" Danny added as the pair of knuckle-crackers headed his way. The young fellow bounded to his feet, holding out his hands. "Guys! Guys! C'mon, I never meant to inconvenience the Boss! I'll come along quietly, honest I will!"

Mugs grinned. "Funny thing about that, Danny boy," said the Big Dog as he slowly rolled up his right sleeve. "The Boss don't care if you come quietly or not. And as for me…" He flicked a glance at Pierre and hissed, "Leave!"

"S-sure, Mugs," Pierre gasped and fled from the Blue Mermaid.

"As I was saying," Mugs went on, still grinning as he now rolled up his left sleeve, "as for me, I kinda like to hear a little noise. Especially the begging for mercy. Right, boys?"

The knuckle-crackers grinned as well as all three closed in on a horrified Danny.

…

"Mr Gordon!" Miss Collingwood hurried toward the fallen man, but Jim got there first. Rapidly he examined Artie, then growled, "He's out cold!" With a snort he added, "He never should have left the hospital so soon." Jim rolled Artie onto his back and yanked the bum jacket from his lax hands. "Here, do something with this." Jim started to thrust the jacket into the girl's hands, then frowned. He glanced at the jacket once more, then brought it close to his face and took a sniff.

"What's wrong, Mr West?"

"Artie was wearing this last night when we were all hit by that knock-out gas, the one that affected him so much worse than any of the rest of us. And just now when he picked it up, he shook out the wrinkles — and apparently shook out something else." He took another sniff, then passed the jacket to her. "Smell anything?"

She took a cautious whiff. "In fact, I do. Not something I recognize, but there is certainly something there! And look, on the cloth you can see a fine powder."

"Wrap the clothing back up immediately so that no more of the powder escapes. No doubt that's what just conked Artie out. The knock-out substance got to him again. Artie! Hey, Artie!" As Miss Collingwood obeyed his instructions, Jim patted at Artie's face, trying to wake him up.

After a few minutes, when Artie still hadn't come out of it, Jim lifted him onto a sofa. The girl was done wrapping up the clothes by this time and hurried to fetch a glass of water. "It might help to sprinkle some of this on his face," she said as she held it out to Jim.

He took the glass from her, then nodded at the swinging door into the galley. "There's a broom and dustpan in there. See if you can clear away more of that powder. It's possible he's still breathing it in."

"In that case, sweeping it will only add more of it to the air. Where are some towels?" she asked.

He told her, and as he flicked some of the water onto Artie's face, the girl fetched a stack of towels, dampened one, and used it to pat the desktop and floor, blotting up the powder.

She finished just in time to see Jim in frustration splash about half the glassful of water into Artie's face all at once.

Nothing. Artie just lay there.

"Do you have any smelling salts?" Miss Collingwood asked. "Perhaps that would awaken him."

But Jim was shaking his head. "No, they tried that at the hospital when he was out the first time. He…"

A knock on the door interrupted him, and he shot a furious scowl toward whoever was silhouetted on the frosted glass of the door. "Get that, will you?" he ordered.

"Very well, Mr West," the girl replied. She glided over while Jim turned his attention once more towards Artie. He'd come out of it again in the hospital, but why? Was it merely a matter of waiting it out, or had something happened to bring him back to consciousness? But if something had happened to wake him up, what could it have been? For Jim had been right there with him the whole time and hadn't noticed anything that might have made a change. And yet if it was a matter of waiting, then experience told him they would have several hours ahead of them before the knock-out gas wore off.

At any rate, Artie should go to back to the hospital right away. Perhaps Dr Archer had discovered something by now, and…

"Excuse me, Mr West," said Miss Collingwood, "but there's another messenger here for you." She pulled the door wide open to admit a fresh-faced young policeman, his domed hat tucked up under his arm. The young man snapped to stiff attention and saluted.

"Sir! A message for you from Chief O'Mara, sir!"

"Thank you." Jim signed the book the policeman offered him, then tore open the envelope as soon as the young man was gone. As he read the message, an impatient snort escaped him.

"What is it, Mr West?"

He passed the note to Miss Collingwood and said, "Chief O'Mara has found something new regarding the gang and wants to meet with us. Or with me; he asks if Artie is better, but," and he waved a hand at his comatose partner, "as we know, he hasn't recovered enough to get back to work — and of course that means I can't go meet with O'Mara."

"Why not?"

Jim's brows knit. "Why not? You need to ask? I have to go take Artie back to the hospital. I can't just leave him here."

She stared at him for a second, then gave an incredulous laugh. "You most certainly _can _leave him here, Mr West! You can leave him in my care. That was one of the reasons Col Richmond assigned me to you two gentlemen, so that I could keep watch over Mr Gordon's health. So just go on and…"

"Leave him in your hands? From the moment he collapsed, you haven't done one thing to watch over his health. I've done it all!" He glared at her.

Fire flared up in her eyes. "And how was I to do anything for Mr Gordon with you ordering me about, expecting me to be the maid and clean up around here, and then sending me off to the door to be the concierge! I _will _see about Mr Gordon's health, Mr West, if you will just back off and let me!" She stormed across the room to snatch up one of the towels she'd borne in earlier, then perched herself on the edge of the sofa at Artie's side and leaned over him, patting his face dry from the glass of water Jim had emptied on him.

Jim folded his arms, continuing to glare at the insufferable girl. "The fact that you know how to use a towel doesn't make you a trained private nurse, Miss Collingwood."

"Col Richmond is satisfied with my medical training," she replied coldly, not looking at him. She felt along Artie's jaw for his carotid artery, then fixed her eyes on the hands of the locket watch pinned to her bodice.

"Col Richmond isn't the one who has to suffer your tender ministrations. Just what is your training anyway? I suppose you learned nursing from Florence Nightingale herself, did you?"

"Pulse is a bit slow," she murmured to herself as she now gently opened Artie's eyelids and peered into his eyes. "And no, of course I didn't learn from her. I was a child when the Crimean War happened, and certainly wasn't in Europe. No, my training took place in Washington during our own War, when I…"

"When you were still a child," Jim interrupted, still glaring. "You couldn't have been more than ten or twelve when the War ended, and you expect me to believe you learned to be a nurse during it?"

"I was fourteen when it ended, and there were plenty of boys that age who lied about how old they were in order to join the Army when the War began, as you well know! But what I was going to say was that my eldest sister volunteered as a nurse at one of the many hospitals that sprang up in and around our capital city, and after a great deal of cajoling on my part, she and our mother permitted me to accompany Lois to the hospital. I did everything that was asked of me, watched and listened and learned. Cried every night and threw up often, but I went back every day and kept on. I did far more than simply roll bandages and empty bedpans, Mr West! The wounded soldiers needed us, and I wasn't about to let them down." She leaned back and shot Jim a glare of her own. "I didn't let them down, and I won't let you and Mr Gordon down either. Now he's breathing deeply and regularly as if asleep, so I don't believe he's in any danger, but if he hasn't awakened again in…" She consulted her locket watch again. "…fifteen minutes, I shall ask the engineer — Mr Cobb is his name, correct? — I shall ask Mr Cobb to go hail us a carriage and to help me load Mr Gordon into that carriage, and I shall take him back to the hospital myself. Does that quell your fears about me and my ability to be the private nurse and assistant Col Richmond has sent me here to be?"

Jim said nothing, only continued to eye her coldly, his arms still folded.

Miss Collingwood bounded to her feet. "I'm sure Chief O'Mara is wondering when you're going to arrive for that meeting, Mr West." She crossed to the desk, picked up his hat, and held it out to him. "You had better hurry!" And the two of them stood like a pair of statues facing each other, neither one backing down an inch.

A soft chuckle that abruptly turned into a cough sounded in the parlor with them. "Quite, uh…" More coughing. "…quite the little tigress, isn't she, James?"

Both Jim and Miss Collingwood left off their glaring to stare in amazement at the sofa.

"Artie!" Jim grinned in delight and leapt to his partner's side, Miss Collingwood only a couple of steps behind him. "You're awake! How did that happen?" He helped Artemus to sit upright on the sofa.

"That's a good question, Jim, but I've got an even better one for you: Why was I sleeping on the sofa in the first place?"

Swiftly Jim outlined the past few minutes, catching Artie up on what he'd missed.

"The knock-out powder again? Really?" Artie closed his eyes and passed a hand over his face, then looked up again as a wild grin broke out across his face. "But that's perfect!" he beamed. "Now we have a sample of the powder for me to analyze. Once I figure out what's in it, I can also figure out what will counteract it. This is great!"

"You'll analyze a powder that knocks you out whenever you breathe it?" said Miss Collingwood in amazement. "And just how do you plan to do that?"

"Oh, I'll come up with something," he said confidently. "Right after Jim and I get back from that meeting he mentioned with Chief O'Mara. I'll just…" He sprang up to his feet, only to reel instantly and land back on the sofa again, a shocked look on his face.

"Mr Gordon!" Miss Collingwood cried. She seated herself at his side and caught his wrist to check his pulse once more.

"Miss Collingswood, I assure you, I'm perfectly fine…" Artie began, but Jim shook his head. "Oh no, you aren't, Artie. You need to stay here."

"But, Jim! I…"

Jim lifted a hand to cut off the rest. "Stay here, rest if you need it, and go ahead and get started trying to analyze the powder on those clothes. But do whatever you need to do to avoid knocking yourself out with the stuff again! Miss Collingwood, you will assist him and try to keep him conscious. Understood?"

"Yes sir," said the girl, but Artie only let out a snort at being grounded.

"I'll go meet with the chief," Jim added as he put on his gun belt. "I'll keep you updated. Take care of yourself, Artemus."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Artie groused.

Jim glanced at the girl, then shifted his look pointedly toward Artie. She caught the look and nodded. "I _will _take care of him," she mouthed silently.

Jim saw the steely look of determination in her eyes and hoped she would be able to put her money where her mouth was. Well, there was nothing Jim could do but entrust Artie to her care and hope she would carry through. And with that thought Jim hurried off to meet with Chief O'Mara.


	12. Act Three, Part Three

**Act Three, Part Three**

"Here he is, Boss."

In her corner of this new office, Sœur Mathilde glanced up from her endless dealing of the tarot to see Mugs come in followed by his two confreres, the latter pair dragging between them Danny DuPree — or what was left of him. The old woman shot a nettled glance at the Boss.

The cold eyes within the skeletal mask narrowed. "Was it not clear to you, Mugs, that I wanted him brought to me alive and in one piece?"

"Oh, he is, Boss! Well, mostly." Mugs nodded to the knuckle-crackers, and the two instantly dropped their burden into an untidy heap on the floor.

The heap moaned.

"There, see? He's alive."

The Boss regarded Mugs for a moment, then rose from his desk and stalked over to the heap to prod it with the toe of his shoe. Again the heap moaned. "Hmm," said the Boss. "So it seems, so it seems. But in dire need, I would say, of a restorative. Mathilde, my dear?"

The woman placed the card she was in the act of dealing — it was the Hanged Man — into its proper place in the tableau, then set aside the rest of the deck in order to rummage through the enormous carpetbag sitting on the floor by her feet.

Meanwhile, the Boss clicked his fingers and pointed first at the heap, then at an empty chair. The knuckle-crackers obeyed, snatching up the moaning man and redepositing him none too gently in the chair, where faint whimpers continued to escape from him.

Now Sœur Mathilde drew close, in her hand a small glass vial of some bilious green powder. She uncapped the vial, poured a tiny amount of its contents into her hand, murmured a few unintelligible words, then blew the powder into the moaning man's face. Without even waiting to see the powder take effect, she reclosed the vial, returned it to her carpetbag, and went back to dealing out her tarot cards.

She did not watch, but the others did. The powder swirled and eddied in the air creating crazy, vaguely recognizable, vaguely disturbing patterns before it at last settled gently all over the moaning heap huddled in the chair. And for a moment, that was all that happened. Then, with a trio of violent sneezes that seemed almost strong enough to send his head spinning from his shoulders, the heap sat up and turned into a human being again. Danny DuPree shuddered all over, blinking rapidly as he looked around the room only to find a skull-faced man looming over him.

Danny shrank back. "Eep! I… I mean, um, _bon… bonjour_, Boss. How, how's it going?"

The Boss smiled down at him. "_Bon après-midi_," he responded suavely. "And how are you feeling, my boy?"

A nervous chuckle died quickly on Danny's lips as the "my boy" sent a surge of ice water through his veins. "Oh, I, uh… I've had better days," he quipped, trying hard to appear nonchalant.

The Boss' chuckle was full and thriving. "Yes, I'm sure you have — as have we all." He seated himself behind his desk and steepled his fingers. "Now, my dear boy, let us talk."

"Er… talk?" Danny just barely kept himself from tugging anxiously at his collar. "Talk about what?"

"Oh, about the raid last night… and the news this morning that one of the government men — the one who came in first babbling about little green men, the one whom you decked so neatly — was in the hospital still unconscious. You were here when we received that word, were you not, Danny?"

Danny's eyes shifted nervously. "Um… yeah…"

"And when our dear Sœur Mathilde here informed us that some men, some few men, are affected very deeply by the magical mist that she uses upon our enemies, you were here then as well, is that not true?"

Danny's eyes shifted again, but not this time from nerves. The Boss caught the look and laughed. "Ah, but you are one who does not believe in magic!" He chuckled deeply, then leaned forward. "Yet every morning when Mathilde serves us each and all with her potion that renders us invulnerable to her magical mist, you take your place among all the rest to drink it while she recites her incantations."

Danny shrugged. "Chemicals I understand. Chemicals I believe in. The mumbo jumbo that goes along with it, not so much." He glanced toward Sœur Mathilde. "No offense, ma'am."

She sniffed and placed another card, the Fool this time.

"But you were not here later when we received further word about the government agent in the hospital, I think."

"Further word? Well, y'know, I was sent out to make a delivery."

"So you were, so you were. Then you did not hear that the agent was returned to consciousness."

"Was he? Well, how about that!"

"And yet Sœur Mathilde assures us that it would only be through a draft of our morning potion which she alone makes with her own hands that he could possibly have been restored."

"Really? Then it was mighty neighborly of her to give him a drink." Danny turned a bright smile her way, receiving but a cold stare in response.

"She didn't," said the Boss.

"No?"

"No." His eyes hard within his skeletal mask, the Boss informed him sternly, "It seems someone stole a vial of the potion and administered it to the agent."

Danny's mouth went dry. "Is… is that a fact?"

"Indeed it is, my boy. Now, I don't suppose you saw who stole it?"

"Me?" He shook his head. "Naw, Boss, I didn't see any of the guys take it." Which was perfectly true, as the one Danny had seen steal it wasn't one of the guys, but he himself.

"Mm. So I thought," said the Boss. "But you see, the thief will not escape my justice. Already we have these." He reached into a drawer and produced a couple of items which he tossed onto the desk. Danny glanced at them and his heart stopped.

The Boss picked up one of the items and held it up: a small glass vial, empty but for a little residue of some viscid liquid pooled in the bottom. "Sœur Mathilde tells me this is hers, taken somehow from her carpetbag. And the other…" He lifted a tiny slip of paper, rolled up tightly, no bigger than a matchstick. "Here, my boy, have a look. Tell me what you see."

Steeling his hands lest they tremble, Danny took the paper and unrolled it. "There's just a question mark on it," he said, ignoring the other symbol, the one that looked like a circle bisected by a vertical line.

"A question mark, yes," the Boss said, taking back the paper. "And this?" He tapped the circle. "What do you make of this?"

Again Danny shrugged. "I dunno. Half a moon?"

"Hmm. I suppose that is a possibility." The Boss regarded the paper, turning it this way and that, before letting it fall to the desktop once more. "I was thinking though that it looks a great deal like two capital D's stuck back to back. Someone's initials perhaps?"

Danny DuPree's heart plummeted into his toes as the Boss rose from his chair. "And do you know, Danny my boy, where we found these things?"

He didn't dare trust his voice; Danny only shook his head.

Smiling, the Boss leaned over his captive's chair and purred, "Why, they were on a tray on the bedside table of the agent's hospital room after he was sent home. Imagine that! Somehow one of Mathilde's vials found its way into the very room of the man who so sorely needed it, and there it lay alongside a note plainly asking what to do next!" Eyes flashing, he glared down and snarled, _"And who do you suppose left those things there, Danny DuPree?"_

Uh-oh. Danny looked around, wishing frantically for some way out of this. Mugs was directly behind his chair, the two knuckle-crackers were blocking the door, and there was the Boss right in his face. He was doomed! Why oh why hadn't the agents noticed the vial and the note sitting there on Mr Gordon's bedside table? That's why Danny had left the things there, for the agents! But now…

The Boss chuckled. "Ah, but you're a bright fellow, Danny my boy. You'll redeem yourself in my eyes, won't you?" He reached out and patted Danny on the cheek, then held out his other hand to Mathilde. "A vial of the magical mist, my dear."

She rummaged in her carpetbag and brought the Boss what he wanted. He took it with thanks, then held it up. "There is enough magic in here — oh, or to have it your way, enough _chemicals _in here — to knock out an elephant, far more than enough to knock out that government agent and keep him out forever. After all, only Sœur Mathilde has the potion to counteract the magical mist, and barring some other young idiot stealing a vial and giving it to that agent, he'll never see the potion. No, nor the light of day again!" Smiling, he clapped Danny on the shoulder and said, "Now, you won't fail me, will you, my boy? You'll go immediately and rectify the problem you caused, and everything will be right between us again, hmm?"

Danny stared into the Boss' face, into the eyes behind the mask. "Y-yes sir," he said, knowing there was nothing else he could say.

"Fine, fine!" The Boss placed the vial in Danny's hand and closed the boy's fingers around it. "Off you go then. They're on a train at the railroad yards. Go at once. Mugs will show you the way."

"M-mugs?" A look of doom settled on Danny's face.

"Yes, he'll be right behind you the whole time!" the Boss beamed. And as one of the knuckle-crackers opened the door to let Danny out, the Boss gave a nod that directed Mugs' attention to Sœur Mathilde where she was just placing a new card on the tableau.

The card of the Grim Reaper.

"You got it, Boss," said Mugs. He patted a Bowie knife in its sheath at his side, winked, and followed Danny out the door.

…

"Meet me at the Star Warehouse," the chief's note read. "New evidence found regarding gang. Is Gordon better? O'Mara."

Jim looked over the note once more as he stood within the warehouse, frowning. There was no one in sight, not down here on the main floor, not overhead in the small loft of an upper floor either. Crates and boxes filled the great barn of a room, some of them stacked right up to the ceiling. Others were still scattered across the floor and a few even shivered to pieces, the leftovers of the previous night's battle in here. But if there were any policemen in the warehouse, Jim didn't see them.

So where was O'Mara? Either something had come up to call the chief away, in which case surely he would have left a man or two to wait for Jim, or else the note was a fake and this was all a tr…

Ah. The half dozen big bruisers stepping out from concealment in all directions settled that question. Trap. Definitely a trap.

Jim smiled cordially at the group, choosing to play along for a bit. "I was supposed to meet Chief O'Mara here," he said.

"And found us instead. Funny how that worked out," said one of the bruisers. He grinned at his compatriots.

"Actually, I think it worked out very well," Jim replied. And at the puzzled looks on the bruisers' faces, he added, "After all, the chief's note did say there was new evidence at this warehouse — and here you are."

One of the bruisers leaned in toward the leader and hissed, "What's he talkin' 'bout, Deke?"

Deke, without taking his eyes off West for a moment, hissed back, "For one thing, he's just talking through his hat. And for another, don't call any of us by name when he can hear you, bonehead! Now, let's get him!"

Immediately all six charged.


	13. Act Three, Part Four

**Act Three, Part Four**

"Mr Gordon?" Miss Collingwood peeked into the baggage car and spotted him sitting at a table surrounded by an impressive array of flasks, beakers, and all sorts of other lab equipment. He was at the moment peering into a tall microscope.

"Mr Gordon, I've made some supper for us as you requested," she went on as she stepped into the room, "but I'll warn you again as I told you before, I'm no cook. The meal is little more than an assortment of crudités arranged as something of a relish… tray?" For he now turned to look at her, and the sight of him quite left her speechless.

An enormous pair of goggles covered the entire upper half of his face, magnifying his eyes to the size of silver dollars. The lower half was hidden by a black rubber mask that enclosed his mouth and nose. An extension of the mask dangled below his chin, forming a bag that filled and emptied with his every breath.

After a second of stunned silence, Miss Collingwood ventured, "M-Mr Gordon?"

He held up a hand — yes, even his arms up to the elbows were encased in heavy black rubber! — stood up, and pulled a large metal box close to his side. Quickly he packed a great number of the items all around him into the box, some of which she recognized as the powder-coated clothing she herself had wrapped up earlier. He even removed the glass slide he'd been examining under the microscope, slipped it into an envelope, and gently placed it within the box as well. He then used a damp rag to swab down his workspace, packed the rag into the box with all the rest, and closed the lid of the box. Only after he firmly locked the box did he strip off the protective gear.

"There!" he said and ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. "Now, did I hear something about supper?"

"Yes you did, and I hope you also heard me say I'm not much of a cook, so don't expect gourmet cuisine."

"Oh, I'm sure you did fine, just fine, Miss Collingswood. Shall we?" He offered his arm.

She sighed as she slipped her hand through his elbow and they started for the varnish car. "Oh dear. I'm afraid there's something we really must discuss, Mr Gordon."

She sounded so serious that Artie paused as he opened the door for her. "Oh? What, ah, what's wrong?"

"_Collingswood!" _she said.

He frowned in puzzlement. "I'm sorry? Something about your name?"

"But that's just it! My name _isn't _Collingswood. It's Collingwood; there's no S in it."

They passed through the swinging door into the dining area of the varnish car where supper awaited them with Artie murmuring, "Collingwood… Collingswood… Colling… There's no S?"

"No. None at all," she said gently.

"And I've been saying it wrong all this time?" he asked as he held her chair for her.

"Well, that's part of the problem. About half the time you do get it right. That's why I didn't want to bring it up at all," she added as he took his own seat opposite her, "and I never did mention it the previous time we worked together."

"I was saying it wrong back then too?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid so. I didn't bother to say anything then because, well, it was a temporary working arrangement and I was sure I could simply grit my teeth and bear with it for a day or two. But now, as I'm to be here for the foreseeable future… Well, hearing that misplaced S does begin to rankle after a while," she finished and smiled ruefully at him.

"Ah. As Lord Byron put it, 'Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt' — or in your case, well pronounced, hmm?

She gave a soft chuckle. "Something like that, yes."

"My profoundest apologies then, my dear Miss Colling, ah, wood." He smiled his endearingly lopsided smile at her. "And I give you permission, should I slip up and introduce that unwanted S again, to, oh… pinch me?"

"Pinch you?" She shook her head in amazement. "And run the risk that you might like it and continue to play havoc with my name deliberately? I think not!" A sudden sparkle crept into her eye. "However…"

"However what?"

She chuckled lightly. "Oh… you'll see. If ever I hear that S again, rest assured, Mr Gordon, I shall certainly call your attention to it." She laughed again and began helping herself to the meal.

Artie too turned his attention to the supper — and had to steel himself not to show his disappointment. Relish tray she had called it, and that summed it up very well. He made a mental note to either avoid putting her to work in the galley again, or to take her in hand himself and teach her how to cook. How in this day and age had a girl managed to grow up without learning her way around a kitchen? He transferred some of the glorified salad to his plate and munched disconsolately.

…

Evening had fallen on the waterfront, bringing ashore as usual the cooling night breeze. Outside the Star Warehouse a few passersby roamed past, heading for home or a stroll or a brew. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; somewhere else the lonely hoot of a train whistle sounded. And from somewhere within the warehouse:

_Crash!_

A hefty portion of the front wall splintered outwards as three big bruisers along with a lithe fellow in a bolero suit came smashing through the façade. Two of the bruisers landed heavily on the third, putting him out of commission. That pair scrambled to their feet and lunged in vain at the smaller man just as two more bruisers, like the others looking quite a bit worse for the wear, locked elbows as both tried to exit the newly made hole in the wall.

One final bruiser came up behind them and shoved them out into the night. "Get him!" he snarled at the others. "Get West!"

"You got it, Deke!" one hollered, only to receive a cuff up the side of his head along with the reminder of, "I told you: no names in front of West, bonehe… _Hey! After him!"_

For James West, while the others were distracted, had taken off running for the piers lining the riverfront across the street. Belatedly Bonehead and the others scrambled to catch up with him. They had lost too much time though. As he reached the outer edge of the pier, Jim leapt over the side and out of sight.

Except… where was the splash?

The first of the bruisers slowed as he drew near the edge, only to be nearly knocked into the river when Bonehead kept on at full speed. The third man to the edge of the pier snatched at the first one, dragging him back. The fourth avoided all of them and threw himself onto his belly, peering over the edge at the dark waters below.

Nothing. He saw nothing at first. Then a movement below him caught his eyes, followed by his hair. Jim West, holding fast to a fishing net dangling under the pier, yanked hard, overbalancing the fourth man and sending him into the river.

Ah, _now _there was a splash.

Deke, coming up behind his remaining three men, shouted, "Don't just stand there; get after him! There's a ladder; can't you see it? Get down there and…"

But they were too late again! As one of the men started down the ladder, he suddenly found himself face to face with West coming up on the opposite side of the same ladder. Jim punched him twice, solar plexus and chin, and send this bruiser as well windmilling into the river.

"Get him!" hollered Deke.

Cautiously his two final men edged toward the ladder, neither one wanting to get too close.

"Go on, you yellow skunks. Get after him!" Deke stormed at them. He grabbed Bonehead by the arm and slung him toward the top of the ladder.

"Hey, Deke!" hollered one of the men in the water. "He's getting away!"

"What? Where? How?"

"He's climbing around under the pier!"

Deke dropped to his belly and had a look. Sure enough, West was swinging hand over hand beneath the pier, and as Deke watched, the agent reached another ladder and swiftly climbed it.

"After him!" Deke bounded to his feet and rallied his men.

Jim took off across the pier, heading back to the Star Warehouse. He charged inside, the others on his heels, and pounded up the interior stairs to the small upper floor.

"We've got him now! There's no other way down!" Bonehead crowed. Eagerly he tore up the stairs as well and lunged at West, and for his trouble he got a knee to the ribs and a belt to the face. Bonehead backpedaled and went bowling down the stairs, nearly taking out Deke. The leader barely managed to get out of the way in time, then charged at West. The final minion threw himself into the fray as well, the three of them struggling together, rolling about the upper floor, knocking into the railing here, into a stack of empty barrels there.

The two sopping bruisers made it up the ladder onto the pier again, one helping the other, then both raced into the warehouse to behold the spectacle of Bonehead sprawled unconscious on the floor, while upstairs the battle raged on.

Well, upstairs still only briefly. And Bonehead's contention that there was just one way down was clearly only a matter of opinion as well, for as Deke and Jim, on their feet again at last, were trading furious blows, the final dry minion snatched up a barrel and hefted it overhead. With a gloating grin, he cried, "Turn 'im this way, Deke! I'll smash 'im!"

Deke, eyes glinting, made a grab at Jim's shirtfront to sling him toward his waiting companion. He missed though, mainly because Jim sprang into the air and kicked Deke in the chest with all his might. Back went Deke, right into his barrel-wielding buddy. Back went both, barrel and all, right into the railing around the upper floor. Back went the railing too, overpowered by all the combined weight and momentum. The damp minions below heard the crash and looked up from trying to revive Bonehead to see two men and a barrel heading straight for them.

Jim straightened his jacket and sauntered down the stairs to see if there was any fight left in anyone. Not much. Only one man in the heap on the floor was twitching: Deke. He lifted his head, squinted up at Jim, then began, of all things, to laugh.

He laughed until he wheezed for it, rolled off the heap of his underlings, tried to push himself up to his knees if not his feet, failed, but just kept on laughing.

Jim frowned. There was something disturbing about the man's laughter, something sinister, malevolent, mocking. Jim reached down and yanked Deke up to look him in the eye. "What's so funny?" he snapped.

"You'll… _heh! _You'll find out soon enough, West, soon enough. Did, did you think we'd been… been sent here to capture you?"

"If you were, you failed."

Deke shook his head. "Didn't, didn't fail. We were…" He snickered. "We were the distraction."

Distraction. Something like a cold hand took hold of Jim's heart and squeezed.

"Yeah," said Deke, wheezing hard now. "You'll… find out… when you get… get back to your train. You'll… see…"

Deke passed out, but Jim didn't waste any more time on him. He dropped the man and whirled to dash from the warehouse, racing for the railroad yards and whatever he might find there.

…

"I take it, Mr Gordon," said Miss Collingwood as they concluded their supper, "that you were able to work out some method of examining the powder without it affecting you?"

"Why, indeed I did. The mask I had over my face is a little invention of mine, an artificial lung. It contains a full half hour of oxygen in the reservoir."

"Half… half an hour!"

"Mm-hmm! When I first made one, as Jim can tell you, it only held five minutes. But I've continued to tinker with it, expanding its capacity, and… What was that?"

"What was what?"

Artie held up his hand, tilting his head to listen. "Thought I heard something," he whispered at last. "Something outside." Softly he came to his feet and grabbed his revolver. "Do you have…? Ah, good," he added, seeing that Miss Collingwood had also produced a weapon.

Artie laid a finger to his lips, then headed for the door. Again he listened. He glanced at Miss Collingwood to wave her into a place of concealment only to spot her ducking down behind one of the sofas. Well, there was hope for the girl yet, he thought. For his part, Artie crouched below the level of the frosted window in the upper half of the door, reached for the knob with one hand, his revolver ready in the other, and suddenly yanked the door open.

Sure enough, there was someone lurking on the platform outside. Artie snagged the sandy-haired young fellow and hauled him into the parlor, slamming the door shut behind him. "All right, you, what are you up t… Danny!"

"Mr Gordon! Am I glad to see you!"

Artie holstered his gun. "What do you think you're doing, coming right here to the train?" With a glance out one of the side windows, he added, "Someone might have seen you!"

"Oh, it's already too late for that, Mr Gordon. They're on to me! I don't know how, but the Boss seems to have figured out everything about me, and… well…"

"Well?"

Danny made a wry face. "Well… they've sent me to use this on you," and he pulled the vial of yellow powder out of his pocket, "so that you'll, uh, fall unconscious and never wake up."

Artie's eyes fastened on Danny: first on his face, then on his hand. He whistled. "And it would work too. Let me have that."

"Gladly!" Artie reached out his hand for the powder and Danny started towards the agent, the vial outstretched.

"Stop right there!"

Both men started at the sound of the woman's voice, and Danny whirled to stare at the pretty brunette standing just beyond the sofa with a gun in her hand aimed right at him. "Huh?" he exclaimed. "Who are you?"

"Another federal agent," Artie explained quickly. "Miss Collingwood, put down the gun. This is Danny DuPree, the informant within the smuggling ring. He's on our side."

"Is he?" Her gun never wavered as she kept it trained on Danny. "When I was briefed on the events of last night, Mr Gordon, one thing that stood out to me was that the very man Mr West identified as the informant was the one who knocked you out cold right at the start of the fight. How do you know he's truly on our side? How do you know we can trust him?"

Artie started to answer, then took another look at Danny.

"How do we know he's going to give you that vial still closed?" she went on. "What if he pops the lid off just as he hands it to you? Stop right there!"

For Danny, his eyes full of horror, was edging away from the woman with the gun. He now stopped dead in his tracks and gave a mirthless laugh. "Oh, this is just great," he muttered. "I'm doomed! The one place where I thought I'd be safe, I'm not. I might as well just curl up and die right now!"

Artie regarded the young man meditatively, then pasted on a smile. "Oh, don't worry, Danny. Everything's going to be all right. Just, ah, just give me that vial. _Toss _it to me; that way you can't open it as you pass it to me. That will please Miss Collingwood, hmm?"

"Um… all right." Danny turned and lofted the vial toward Mr Gordon.

And as the little glass vial arced through the air, a number of things happened in rapid succession.

The door slammed open and a big man burst in. As every eye turned to look at him, Mugs grinned and hurled his Bowie knife at Danny.

Danny yelped and dove for the floor.

Both Artie and Miss Collingwood fired at Mugs. The big man flailed backwards, out through the door and over the railing of the rear platform to land with a sickening crunch on the railroad tracks below.

And the glass vial, forgotten, spun through the air until it smashed on the floor.

Quickly the varnish car filled with a roiling cloud of saffron mist.

**End of Act Three**


	14. Act Four, Part One

**Act Four, Part One**

Jim approached the Wanderer stealthily, revolver in hand. Just the fact that the rear door was standing wide open was a big red flag that all was not well. Not only that, but Jim could see by the light of the gibbous moon sailing overhead that there was pool of dark liquid soaking into the gravel of the railroad tracks just below the rear platform.

And besides all that, from within the varnish car came a soft sound of weeping.

Jim mounted the steps quietly, all his senses on full alert. He flattened himself to the outer wall along the doorjamb, peeked within, then sprang inside, gun at the ready.

He saw no one but Miss Collingwood. She was kneeling in the middle of the floor, a basin of water at her side, sniffling as she scrubbed at a stain in the carpet. A deep red stain.

At his sudden entrance, she started and spilled the water. "Mr West!"

"What happened here?" he demanded. "Whose blood is that? Where's Artie?"

She shook her head and began sopping up the spill. "Oh, it's not Mr Gordon's blood. Thank goodness for _that!"_

"Where is he?" Jim repeated insistently.

She nodded toward the sofa just behind her, its back toward the door. "I managed to get him moved that far," she said.

Jim sprinted past her, rounding the sofa. There was Artie, out cold again. "What happened?"

Briefly, and occasionally swiping away the persistent tears, she described the recent events here in the varnish car. "And of course the cloud of powder knocked Mr Gordon out again. I called for Mr Cobb and asked him to deal with the knifeman outside; I wouldn't let him come in here."

"What about Danny?"

"Well, first I had to patch up his arm, of course. After that…"

"His arm?" Jim interrupted. "The knife hit him?"

"No," she said, and the word came out nearly as a wail. "_I _did. When I fired at the man in the doorway… well, it all happened so fast, but somehow in the midst of me firing and Danny dodging the knife — well, I hit him in the arm. I didn't mean to. And yet, on the other hand, do we truly know that we can trust him?"

Jim glanced around the room. "Where's Danny now?"

She nodded toward the corridor to the baggage car. "I bandaged his arm — it was only a flesh wound, thank goodness — and then took him back there and locked him up in the rolling cell. I needed to deal with this blood before it could ruin the carpet and, well… Oh, Mr West! I was trying to keep Mr Gordon from being affected by that hideous powder again, and _this _happened!"

Jim's mouth set into a resolute line. "You finish up here and watch over Artie. I'll go see to Danny DuPree."

…

Danny sat in the rolling cell in the corner of the baggage car and stared at the bandage wrapped around his throbbing arm. "I can't catch a break," he muttered to himself. "I dodge a knife and wind up taking a bullet! Yeah, and I do what Mr Gordon says and toss him the vial of powder, and it winds up breaking open anyway. And once the Boss finds out Mugs is dead, he'll come down on us like… like… oh, like some big thing that comes down real hard on people! Man, but I wish I'd never been in that gang. Or I wish the Boss had never shown up and taken it over. I wish… I wish I could just once catch a break. I mean, even Calamity Jane over there caught a break! But not me. No, never _me!"_

"Who's Calamity Jane?"

Danny jumped and spun to see the man in the bolero suit, the one he knew was Mr Gordon's partner James West. He watched warily as the agent crossed the room to stand just outside the cell he was securely locked inside. "Uh, hi, Mr West. I'm in big trouble, ain't I?"

"Considering how many times in the past twenty-four hours you've knocked my partner out cold, I'd say you're in very deep trouble, yes." Jim fixed the boy with a cold hard gaze.

Danny wilted under it. "Aw, Mr West, I didn't mean to knock him out! Mugs picked just the wrongest time to come busting in!"

"Mugs," said Jim sternly, "did not make you knock Artie out during the fight last night. Or have you forgotten about that so-called fake punch?"

The young fellow wilted even more. "I… I didn't mean to. I'd never tried a fake punch before. And in the heat of the moment… All right, yeah, there's no point in me making excuses, is there? I made a hash of it and that's all there is to it." He slumped down on the cot inside the cell and sighed. "That's me, Danny DuPree, world's biggest bonehead."

A hint of a smile touched Jim's lips. "I've known bigger," he said, thinking of a certain participant in the fight he'd just come from.

Danny cast his eyes up at Jim. "And now Mr Gordon's knocked out again, thanks to me, and what with the Boss figuring out what I did earlier, he'll have Sœur Mathilde's wake-up juice guarded like nobody's business."

"Wake-up juice?" said Jim and he leaned closer to the boy. "_What _wake-up juice?"

…

Miss Collingwood went to the door and tossed the contents of the basin out into the night, then spent a few moments trying to get the door to close. Defeated at that, she fetched some clean water, secured a fresh towel, and perched on the sofa at Mr Gordon's side to tend to him. As before, his pulse and respiration were that of a man in deep sleep. She bathed at his face with the cool water, thinking over recent events such as the man who had forced his way in with that knife, the man whom she had shot at and whom Mr Gordon had killed. Tears slipped down her cheek again and she impatiently knocked them away. She shouldn't be crying; she was a field agent for the Secret Service now! What was she crying over, anyway? The fact that she'd tried to kill a bad guy? Or the fact that she had accidentally winged Danny DuPree while trying to kill the bad guy?

Or, no — the fact that Mr Gordon was once again knocked unconscious courtesy of that infernal yellow powder! How she wished there was something she could do to help Mr Gordon, to bring him out from under the powder's influence. She thought of the large locked box at his lab table in the baggage car, the box into which he had packed those samples of the powder, including the glass slide he'd been examining under the microscope. If only he had found something! Or perhaps he _had _found something, in which case if only he had spoken to her of any discoveries he'd made! Again the tears slid down her cheeks, clouding her vision. She felt inside the cuff of her sleeve for the lacy handkerchief that ought to be there.

"I've… got a handkerchief in my pocket, if you want to borrow it," came a halting, groggy voice.

Miss Collingwood gasped. "Mis… Mr Gordon!"

He gave a lopsided smile and passed a hand over his face. "The last thing I remember is shooting some big bruiser who was attacking Danny, and then the sound of glass breaking. What did I miss this time?"

Swiftly she brought him up to date. "But… Danny seemed positive that the powder would keep you unconscious indefinitely. How is it you're awake?"

He shook his head, then struggled to sit up. "I'd like to know that for myself. Something around here is acting as an accidental antidote, and if I only knew what it was, we could use it on purpose. But Jim's in the baggage car you say? And Danny as well?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"I want to get over there then. Could you…?" He glanced around the car, then pointed. "There. My sword cane. Would you bring that to me?"

She hurried over to fetch it even as she protested, "But wouldn't it be easier if I just go bring Mr West to you, rather than you trying to go to him?"

"Maybe," he allowed. "But if I'm able to be up and moving, that's what I'd prefer to do."

"Then I'll help you," she said, and together they navigated the corridor to arrive at the baggage car.

…

Jim stared incredulously at young Danny. "That was _you _in the nurse's uniform and the wig? I certainly never guessed."

A grin spread over Danny's face. "Yeah, well… I had to get that vial of Sœur Mathilde's wake-up juice to Mr Gordon somehow, and I didn't want anyone stopping me, not any of the Boss' men, and not you either."

Jim nodded, impressed. "That's pretty good, stealing the vial and the dress and hat."

"Well," said Danny with about as much modesty as he would ever be able to muster, "I… prefer to think of it not as stealing, but as, oh, creative borrowing…"

"And you fooled both me and Col Richmond. Not a bad job, kid. Almost as good a disguise as some of the ones Artie comes up with."

"What's that?" said a voice from the door. "Something was almost as good as one of my disguises? Impossible!"

"Artie!" Jim rushed to his partner and took over from Miss Collingwood, helping Artie to a seat at his lab table. "You're awake again. That's amazing."

"That's impossible!" exclaimed Danny from within the cell. "How did you do that? The Boss said only Sœur Mathilde's potion could wake you up, and that no one else has anything like it!"

"Yeah, that's what I'm trying to figure out myself," said Artie. "Mind, I'm glad whatever-it-is is here somewhere to bring me around, but I would certainly like to know precisely what it is."

"Why don't you ask Calamity Jane there?" Danny added.

"Ah… Calamity Jane?"

Danny only snorted and pointed at Miss Collingwood.

"You called her that before," said Jim. "You said that even Calamity Jane could catch a break, but not you."

"Yeah, well, I know why _I _wasn't knocked out by the yellow powder; I had some of the antidote Sœur Mathilde gives each member of the gang every morning. But Miss Priss there wasn't knocked out either. So why was that? Is she just lucky?" A look of horror crossed his face. "Or maybe she had some of the antidote too! Maybe she's a member of the gang, a spy, an informer!"

"What?" Miss Collingwood gaped at the young man in the rolling cell. "Why, I most certainly am _not _a member of that gang," she fumed, "and I resent the accusation!"

Jim's eyes fixed on hers. "That would explain why you shot him," he said.

"Why I shot…!" A gurgle of unbelieving laughter escaped her. "I told you that was an accident! I didn't mean to shoot him. I…!" Quite at a loss for words, she turned to Mr Gordon appealingly.

Artie tipped his head and regarded her appraisingly. "I don't know, Jim. I find it hard to believe that a member of the Secret Service could be a bad guy."

"It's happened before," Jim said darkly, thinking of an old friend at the Denver Academy, someone who had come up with a heinous plot to produce a huge amount of counterfeit money, turning the original purpose of the Secret Service neatly on its head.

"Well, that is true," Artie conceded. "But if the Boss wanted me knocked out by that powder, why would he have Miss Collingwood revive me again? Or rather, again and again? It seems to me every time the powder's overcome me here on the train, I've awakened again to find Miss Collingwood bending over me. Right?"

Jim frowned, mulling it over. "No, she was across the room holding my hat out to me that one time."

"But she'd just been tending to me moments before, hadn't she?"

Jim gave a short nod. "True."

"Then she gave him the antidote," put in Danny. "She must have a supply of it."

"If I had a supply, don't you think I'd know it?" she snapped back in exasperation.

"Oh, but on the contrary!" said Artie with an excited click of his fingers. "I think you indeed have a supply unawares!"

"What?" That question came from both Danny and Miss Collingwood, but Artie ignored them both and turned to his partner.

"What do you think, Jim? What might a woman have that is so intrinsic to her person that no one thinks twice about it? Something so normal, so natural, so customary for a woman that even she doesn't give it a thought? Something we men notice about a woman without really noticing?" He chuckled. "Well, unless she, as the saying goes, takes a bath in it."

Jim's face lit into a smile. "And I bet I know exactly where she keeps that supply." He strode from the room.

Artie winced. "Oops. I hate to think what your stateroom is going to look like once Jim gets through searching it!"

"Searching it for what? Whatever were you describing?" asked Miss Collingwood, baffled.

"Yeah, what was all that about noticing something without noticing it, and something being intrinsic to a woman, and…?" Danny flapped a hand in the air. "What're you talking about?"

"It's quite simple," said Jim as he returned and set a small bottle down on the lab table in front of Artie. "Her perfume."

Artie took up the atomizer and sprayed a little spritz into the air. "Ah!" he breathed. "Patchouli!"

"My perfume?" exclaimed Miss Collingwood. "Are you saying the scent of my perfume is what brought you around, Mr Gordon?"

"And kept _you _from being knocked out by that great cloud of the powder, yes."

"Oh, come on!" Danny scoffed.

Jim and Artie shared a glance, then Jim carried the perfume over to the rolling cell and sprayed some at Danny.

"Hey!" the young fellow cried, batting at the air as if to ward off the scent. "What, you think I wanna smell like a girl?"

"Is the odor familiar, Danny?" Jim asked. "You're the one among us who's had the antidote every morning. Does it smell like this?"

Danny stopped flailing and took a cautious sniff. His eyebrows climbing, he then took a deeper breath. "Hey! It, it _does _smell familiar! But the Boss said no one else had anything like the antidote!"

"Maybe he didn't know that patchouli is also an antidote," said Artie.

"Or maybe he only wanted us to believe there's no other antidote," said Jim.

"At any rate," added Artie, opening the large locked box, "we do need to run a little experiment to test the hypothesis. So, Jim, count to twenty just to be sure, then spritz me with the patchouli."

"What? Artie, you're not going to…"

But before Jim could finish protesting, Artie pulled out the jacket of his bum suit and pressed the cloth to his face.

And promptly fell over.


	15. Act Four, Part Two

**Act Four, Part Two**

"I can't believe Mr Gordon did that!" exclaimed Danny. He was standing now by the lab table, having been released from the rolling cell.

"You haven't known him as long as I have," said Jim.

"But — just deliberately knocking himself out like that?"

"It worked, didn't it?" said Artie, merrily making some preparations in the wake of the successful test of his theory.

Jim snorted. "It's not the first time Artie's knocked himself out in the course of an experiment — and likely won't be the last."

Artie grinned. "Oh, purely in the interest of scientific inquiry!" he agreed. "Now. Here's one for you." He passed a large red bandanna to Jim. "And one for you too." He gave a blue one to Danny. "Tie it around your neck, and the scent of the patchouli with which I've impregnated the cloth will rise to your nose and so counteract any of the yellow powder we might encounter." He demonstrated, rolling up a green bandanna and tying it around his own neck.

Danny held his cloth out at arm's length, his face twisted with repugnance. "You're kidding me! C'mon, I don't wanna smell like a French hoo…" He cut his eyes at Miss Collingwood and finished lamely, "uh, woman."

"Considering that it's my perfume we're using," she replied frostily, "are you implying that _I _smell like a 'French hoo… uh, woman'?"

Danny's response was a thin and watery smile. He then tossed the bandanna back to Artie, saying, "Besides, I won't need it. I had some of the real antidote this morning."

"Real? And what's mine: imaginary?"

"Uh…" Danny winced, realizing that he had just put his foot in his mouth _again_.

"Actually though, you do have a good point, Danny, about the fact that you don't need any antidote." Artie folded up the third cloth and set it aside, even as Miss Collingwood held out her hand to him.

He looked at her hand, then at her.

"Excuse me," she said, "but don't I get one?"

"Why should you?" said Artie.

"Yes, you're not coming with us," said Jim.

"Oh?" she said. "And why not? And don't dare tell me it's because this is dangerous business, too dangerous for a woman to be involved in it, not after the way Mr Gordon coerced me into setting myself up as bait for the kidnappers the previous time we worked together."

"In fact," said Jim as he strapped on his gun belt, "that has nothing to do with it. You're not coming with us because we need someone to go get Chief O'Mara."

"Mm-hmm. And you're elected," said Artie.

"Oh! Oh, well… that's different then. All right, I'll do that. But where shall I tell him to meet you?"

Both Jim and Artie turned to Danny. "Oh, right. Well, it's a place called Brambleglen up on the north side of town, and…"

"Brambleglen!" Miss Collingwood cut in, shocked.

"Well, yeah," said Danny. "Why? Something wrong with Brambleglen? It's just an old warehouse tumbling down on itself. I guess the Boss figured no one would think it was in use, it's in such bad shape, and… What?"

For Miss Collingwood kept shaking her head. "I take it, Danny, you haven't lived here for long."

"No, I came south after the War. Why?"

"As did I," she replied, "but… Well, Brambleglen is more than just an old warehouse, although I suppose you could call it that. It's actually an old slave market with pens for the, ah, merchandise, and located right on the river for easy access to the paddlewheel steamers bringing slaves down the Mississippi to be sold in New Orleans." She shook her head. "It's a reminder of this city's less than illustrious past, and some have called for it to be pulled down, others for it to be preserved, but in the meantime it's been abandoned to its fate."

Jim and Artie exchanged glances. "Pulled down to eliminate that reminder, I take it," said Artie.

"Or preserved to ensure the past will not be forgotten," said Jim.

"Right. When men forget the evils they once committed, it's so much easier for them to commit them all over again," said Artie ruefully.

"I didn't know all that about the Boss' new stomping grounds," said Danny. "At least he's not smuggling people, huh?"

"He's bad enough," said Jim. "He's been ordering murders, and nearly succeeded."

Artie made a murmur of agreement as he quickly dashed off a note. He tucked it into an envelope, sealed it, and passed it to Miss Collingwood. "There you are: a message for Chief O'Mara, outlining what's been going on and asking him to come in force to Brambleglen."

"Thank you, Mr Gordon," she said. She laid her handbag on the lab table as she accepted the note, then opened the bag and slipped the note inside.

"And now, my dear, I'll go with you and hail you a cab." Artie came to his feet and, with a small bow, offered his arm.

"Well," said Miss Collingwood, giving the cuff of one of her sleeves a little tug, "I could point out that I'm perfectly capable of hailing my own cab, but as the company is agreeable…" She smiled at Artie and took his arm, and off the two went.

Jim settled his bandanna around his neck. "As soon as Artie gets back, we'll go," he told Danny. Then Jim set about raiding the shelves of Artie's lab, tucking various goodies he found there into the various hiding places of his bolero suit.

"Do I get a weapon, Mr West?"

Jim glanced at Danny, taking the boy's measure, then nodded. "Here." Jim pulled a silver dollar from his vest pocket and flipped it to the kid.

Danny caught it, then frowned at the large heavy coin. "Well, I'm glad for the money, but what I asked for was a weapon."

Jim gave a grim smile. "That _is _a weapon. Fling it down hard enough, and it's an explosive."

"Fling it… Hey, you tossed it to me! What if I hadn't caught it?"

Now Jim smiled. "You thought it was money, Danny. You never would have missed."

Danny started to answer, then rubbed at the back of his neck instead. "Yeah. Right." He tucked the coin into a pocket just as Artie returned.

"Ready, James?" Artie snatched up his sword cane and made his own raid of the lab shelves.

"Ready, Artie. Come on, Danny." Jim and the boy headed out the door first. Artie paused but a moment to frown at the tabletop; something was different, but what…? Ah, the blue bandanna wasn't there anymore! Well, maybe Danny had changed his mind, or perhaps Jim had decided he wanted an extra. Not that it mattered. Twirling his sword cane, Artie strode jauntily for the door.

…

The scent of patchouli drifted into the police station ahead of the lovely young brunette. "Excuse me," she said, stepping up to the desk sergeant, "but may I see Chief O'Mara, please? I have a message for him."

The sergeant didn't even look up from his writing. "Just leave the message right here, miss. I'll see it gets to 'im."

Miss Collingwood reached into her bag and produced not the note but a leather identification wallet. "My credentials, Sergeant," she said briskly. "I am here on official business and am to deliver the message personally." Her voice was gentle and sweet, but there was steel behind it.

Now the desk sergeant looked up, though he barely glanced at her identification. "Oh, you are, are you? That being the case, ah…" He glanced around the room, then nodded at a young man in uniform. "Duffy here can escort you. She's got a message for the chief, Duffy me lad. Federal business."

"I'll see her on her way, Sarge," said Duffy and he led Miss Collingwood deeper into the building.

…

"So what do we do now?" Danny whispered. Their carriage had brought them from the railroad yards to within a couple of blocks of Brambleglen. From there they had walked the rest of the way, and were now concealed around a corner from the crumbling building, keeping an eye on the place.

The two agents were apparently having a conversation together, although it mostly consisted of eye movements and small gestures. Danny watched and waited, wondering what they were saying. Then at last the men turned to him.

"Who should be in there right now?"

"This time of night? Um… Well, the Boss of course, and Sœur Mathilde with her ever-present tarot cards. Maybe the three Big Dogs — all right, two minus Mugs. Um…" He shrugged. "Other than that, probably a lot of packers getting the stuff ready to be moved, and probably some movers waiting for the packers to get done, so say about, oh, twenty, twenty-five men, give or tak… Hey!" Suddenly Danny darted forward, breaking from their cover around the corner.

"Shh!" Jim yanked Danny back into the shadows and slammed a hand over the kid's mouth.

"Keep your voice down!" Artie hissed into the young fellow's ear. "Do you want them to realize we're here?"

"But didn't you see him?" Danny asked softly but urgently as soon as Jim released his mouth. "The guy who just went into the building! That's Haricot. He's one of the regulars at the Blue Mermaid."

"We've met," said Jim.

"Indeed you have, James," Artie muttered sotto voce, a twinkle in his eye.

"Yeah, but what's he doing here? He ain't a member of the gang!"

Artie glanced at Jim, then threw an arm around their young friend's shoulders. "Danny my boy," he said, "has it never occurred to you that maybe you don't know every single person in that gang?"

"But I…!" The kid paused, considering it. "Ok, maybe I don't. I did when the Boss first took over, but maybe new recruits have come in while I wasn't looking. Like… like him!"

Yet another man slipped furtively into Brambleglen, someone they all recognized.

"Ah, our friend the barkeep," said Artie.

"Yeah," growled Danny. "I found out about _him _earlier today when he fed me a bunch of free drinks just to keep me in one place till ol' Mugs could work me over!"

The agents exchanged another glance. "All right, what do you think, Jim? Move in now, or hang back and see if more folks show up?"

"You're not going to wait for Chief O'Mara?" said Danny. "I thought that's why you sent for him."

Jim consulted his pocket watch. "Miss Collingwood should have delivered the message by now. We'll give him another five minutes, and if he's not here by then, in we go."

Artie nodded. "Mm. And how do you want to do this?"

Jim shot him a small smile. "The usual way should be fine."

"The usual way? Um, what's the usual way?" asked Danny.

"Simple," said Jim. "Artie makes a lot of noise out front while I slip in around the back."

"Oh yeah, like what you did last night. But while you're doing that, what do I do?"

From behind them came the sound of the hammers of about a half-dozen guns cocking. The three men whirled to find themselves surrounded by a group of big bruisers, each man with a gun in hand, cutting them off from moving in any direction except for the one that would take them straight to the front door of Brambleglen.

"Ah," said Artie. "Well, Danny, in answer to your question, uh… apparently, whatever the men with the guns tell us to do."


	16. Act Four, Part Three

**Act Four, Part Three**

"Where are you taking me?" Miss Collingwood inquired, stopping suddenly in the middle of the hall.

"Why, to see the chief, of course, just as you asked, miss." The young policeman smiled winsomely at her. "It's this way." He waved one hand along the hallway before them, stepping closer to take her by the elbow.

Miss Collingwood neatly dodged his grasping hand. "This is _not _the way to Chief O'Mara's office," she declared. "I know the way quite well, having been sent to bear him messages many times in my years here in New Orleans — a fact which any member of this police force certainly ought to know."

His smile only broadened. "I'm new here."

She eyed him and murmured, "Of course you are," under her breath even as a pair of little lectures Mr West had given her — one about invisible people, the other about observing everything — flooded into her mind. Of course! A messenger, even one in a policeman's uniform, can be quite invisible! But now… ah, she recognized this fellow now. It was he, the very man who had brought that note purporting to be from Chief O'Mara, the note which had lured Mr West away leaving Mr Gordon open for attack!

Smiling sweetly, Miss Collingwood said, "I do thank you very much for your help, Officer Duffy, but I believe I shall do better to find the chief's office on my own, as you obviously haven't a clue." She whirled from him and strode rapidly back the way they'd come, slipping a hand into her bag.

Just as she'd expected, strong fingers closed around her arm, whirling her back, and she instantly lifted her hand, the little derringer she'd fished from her bag fitting snugly inside her palm. "You'll unhand me at once, Officer Duffy," she said firmly as she cocked the gun, "if indeed that is really your nam…"

The hand on her arm she had expected, but not the sudden cloud of bright yellow powder that appeared and engulfed her face. And it certainly didn't help that in her great surprise, she gasped, inhaling a lungful. She coughed, choking on the mist, and her last coherent thought before she hit the floor was the need for more patchouli.

Duffy chuckled to himself over the sight of the woman sprawled at his feet, her right arm outstretched, her left arm bent under her body, her cheek resting on her wrist. "Well now," he said, "let's just tidy up a mite, hmm?" He scooped up the derringer and uncocked it, glad it hadn't gone off when it had clattered to the floor, and he tucked the tiny gun back into the woman's handbag. He then used the bag's long carrying strap to bind its owner's wrists together.

"There you go, me lovely," he said, smirking. "And now we're off to see the chief, though not, I'm sure, the one you had in mind." He picked her up and flung her unceremoniously over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

And as he set off whistling, not being able to see the woman's face with her head behind his back, he never noticed how her eyes slowly blinked open, glanced all around, then winked shut again as he carried her away.

…

The interior of Brambleglen was just as expected: crumbling, run-down, decrepit. Very little beyond the roof and walls of this great cavernous monument to inhumanity was in good repair anymore — with the unfortunate exception of the old iron shackles. These, as Jim, Artie, and young Danny found to their discomfiture, were still in fine working order.

There they sat, all in a row, their wrists manacled to the wall above their heads, while the man in the skull-faced mask stood over his three captives, smirking down at them. "Well," he gloated, "the incomparable James West at last! And his partner Mr Gordon as well. It's an odd thing, Mr Gordon, but I was under the strong impression that you were, shall we say, ill. _Deathly _ill."

"Oh well, my Great-Aunt Maude's favorite recipe for chicken soup sets me right every time," Artie quipped.

"I see," said the Boss, deadpan. He stared coldly at West and Gordon for a long moment, then turned to Danny and regarded him meditatively for a while as well. At last, his voice more jovial, he said, "But I'm impressed, Danny my boy, at how neatly you persuaded these, ah, honored guests to come and visit us. I can find a place for a man like you, you know!"

"Yeah?" said Artie. "Seems to me you've already found a place for him: right here where he is, locked up cheek by jowl with the two of us."

"If you really had in mind to reward Danny for luring us in," Jim added, "he'd be free right now. The fact that you've locked him up as well shows plainly that you don't trust him, while your syrupy talk shows you want _us _not to trust him either."

The eyes behind the mask flashed. "You think you're so very clever, you government agents, but look around. Who are the prisoners here, and who the jailer?"

"Hmm. You know what? That's a very good question," said Artie. "Who _is _the jailer?"

"Exactly. Who are you under that mask?" Jim said, taking up his partner's question. "Why don't you take it off and show us?"

"Yes, you've certainly earned the bragging rights," said Artie. "Show us the face of the man who's outsmarted us."

Those cold eyes glittered, and the Boss lifted his hand toward his face — then whipped it out into a roundhouse blow, backhanding Artie across the jaw. "Do not try to trick me, you!" the Boss sneered. "You will go to your graves wondering who I am. Or…" and now he chuckled, "to the closest thing resembling a grave you will ever know. There are plenty of places out in the bayou where we can drop off what's left of you and none will ever find you." He laughed again. "Well, none but the alligators!"

Jim was straining against the shackles, fury blazing in his eyes. "Do it then. If that's what you have in mind, do it."

"What?" Danny squeaked, but Artie, on Jim's other side, caught the boy's eye and gave a tiny shake of his head.

"Oh, I will, Mr West, rest assured. Soon. Very soon. We have tonight's business to conclude first, but once the merchandise is taken care of — oh, yes, you're next." Now the Boss gave himself over completely to his mirth as he strode away to his office, leaving his guests seated in a row.

"What do you have on you, Artie?" Jim said softly.

"Quite a few items, but none that I can reach at the moment. You?"

"Acid in my cuff links, but again, I can't reach them."

Casually, trying not to clink the iron chains connecting his wrist to the wall, Artie stretched out his hand toward Jim's. "Maybe I can… get hold of…"

"This?" Danny, sitting on Jim's other side, managed to catch a cuff link between two fingers. "What do I do?"

"Can you pull it off?" hissed Artie, his eyes sweeping the room, making sure no one was noticing what they were doing.

"I… I think… Yeah! There. Now what?"

"Put it over the lock of my shackle and squeeze," said Jim.

Danny nodded and stretched out even further. "Um… There! Is that right?"

A tendril of smoke curled up out of the lock on Jim's manacle. "We'll know pretty soon," said Jim.

"Shh!" breathed Artie. He nodded toward a side door.

Someone was just entering carrying a bundle over his shoulder. As the three prisoners sat quietly with innocent looks on their faces, the Boss appeared from his office again, his two remaining Big Dogs flanking him, Pierre and Haricot just behind them, and Sœur Mathilde in the background with her cards. The newcomer tossed down his burden on the floor near the office door and held out a hand to shake the Boss' hand warmly.

Now the prisoners could see two important details. One was that the newcomer was wearing a policeman's uniform. And the other was that the burden he had cast down was none other than Miss Collingwood, her hands bound together, her eyes closed, her body motionless. Breathing at least, but not moving.

Jim and Artie exchanged a glance. This didn't look good!

"Well!" the Boss called out jauntily. "One more for the gators!" He tossed an arm around the policeman's shoulders and led him into the office.

The packers went back to their work and the movers to their poker games. The prisoners sat quietly, waiting for things to settle down again. "How's the lock?" Artie asked softly.

For answer Jim twisted his wrist inside the shackle and the irons fell loose. Quickly he caught the chain before it could clank against the wall and alert anyone. He laid it down silently, then pulled the lock pick from under his lapel and went to work on the other shackle.

"Here." With both arms free now, Jim released Artie, then turned to Danny as well. And as Artie massaged his wrists, he squinted across the room and frowned. What was that? Was he imagining things, or had the comatose Miss Collingwood just looked at him? Yes, and winked?

"Hey!" One of the packers was pointing at them. "They're loose!" he hollered.

"Things are about to get interesting," Jim told Danny as with a final twist of the lock pick he set the boy free.

"Interesting I can do without," Danny replied. "It tends to get you kil…" But then the packers and movers swarmed in and there was no more time to finish his thought.

Jim didn't wait for the gang to reach him; he charged into the crowd, taking out the first three guys in as many seconds. A multitude of hands grabbed at him, and then Jim disappeared from sight.

Artie was busy as well. He happened to spot one fellow in particular who had picked up a weapon at random, and Artie ducked and wove his way through the mob, tripping and elbowing to the left and right, working his way toward the man wielding the walking stick. Yes, a very familiar walking stick! The man ran at Artie with the stick drawn back high over his shoulder like a baseball bat. Muttering, "All right, if that's how you want to play it," Artie yanked a bright red ball from one of his pockets, stopped short, and lobbed the ball toward the man just as he was beginning his swing.

The sight of the ball startled the man and he faltered, missing the ball completely. The ball, however, did not miss him. It thudded into his chest, bounced off, and dribbled to the floor at his feet. The man glowered at it and started to kick it away — only to find that now a fine stream of some noxious liquid was spewing up from the ball. The man shrieked and flailed, dropping the walking stick in his panic to get away.

Artie produced a handkerchief and used it to retrieve his walking stick and wipe it clean. "Thank you very much," he murmured, then turned to see who was next.

Danny, meanwhile, had taken off running behind a stack of barrels, three of his old compatriots in hot pursuit. Danny shoved the barrels over into the path of the men on his heels — or so he hoped. One of them got bowled over, but the other two caught the kid and set about pounding him with the apparent aim of making mincemeat out of him.

Artie spotted Danny's predicament and rushed over. "Fore!" he cried and swung the walking stick at the first fellow's head. _Thwock! _"Oops, sliced that one," Artie quipped as the fellow fell away to the right. The other man whirled and, forgetting about Danny, flung himself at Artie and his walking stick.

About a half dozen men had piled on top of Jim West, burying him completely. With a mighty effort Jim surged up from beneath them, scattering them in all directions. Someone jumped Jim from behind and spun him around, then drove a fist into Jim's gut. He doubled over and sank to his knees.

The office door crashed open; the Boss and all those with him stared out in amazement. "But how did they get loose?" cried Pierre.

"That is of no importance at the moment," the Boss replied. He turned to one person in particular in the room behind him and nodded.

Chuckling smugly, the man who had downed Jim aimed a vicious kick at Jim's chin. It never landed. Jim grabbed the foot as it flew toward him and gave a twist, sending the man spinning to the floor. Jim slammed a fist into the man's jaw, knocking him out.

And as Jim sprang back up to his feet, three more men charged him.

Danny scrambled up and away from the fight Artie had just taken over, only to find another set of the movers and packers closing in on him. "Aw c'mon, guys! Gimme a break, can't you?"

One of them grinned. "Oh, we'll give you a break all right. We'll even give you your choice: arm, leg, or neck?"

"Everyone's a comedian," Danny muttered, rolling his eyes heavenward. Then his mouth dropped open and he pointed over his opponents' heads. "Holy Moses! What in tarnation is _that?"_

To a man they turned to look.

Artie didn't have enough time to draw the sword from his walking stick as Danny's old attacker hurled himself at him. Instead, in a motion like the stroke of a billiards cue, Artie zipped the stick up through the circle of his fingers, the knobbed tip catching his opponent solidly in the chin. As that man bit the dust, Artie heard Danny's cry and wondered what the boy could have seen. He whirled to have a look for himself.

Two of the three men had Jim by the arms now, trying to hold him securely so the third could pummel him, something for which Jim wasn't about to stand still. In fact, he didn't stand at all. Leaning on the two men who held him, he jumped up and gave the third man a two-footed kick in the ribs. And as the third man went reeling backwards, before he could even hit the ground, Jim was leaping again, this time into a back somersault, head over heels. Startled, the two remaining men lost their grip on him — and that wasn't all they lost. Jim caught each man by the nape of the neck and rammed them towards each other, clonking their heads together.

Then he let go. The two gently fell together and there they stood leaning on each other as if they weren't both knocked out cold.

That's when Jim heard Danny's cry. He pivoted to see what the boy was talking about, then chuckled. "That rascal!" he murmured, for as soon as the men whirled to look up at the ceiling behind them, Danny scuttled off as fast as he could go and dove beyond a large wooden crate.

Artie tapped his chin with the knob of his walking stick and shot a glance toward Jim.

The men turned back, one of them complaining, "I don't see anythi… Hey!"

"You see us, don't you?" said Jim.

They did indeed, and the fight was on again, half the crowd charging after Artie, the other half rushing toward Jim.

Abruptly a woman's voice lifted into a chant. Sœur Mathilde, standing in the office door with the Boss and his guests right behind her, cast a vial of her magical mist into the air, the saffron dust swirling and eddying throughout the room. "They will be helpless in but a moment," she said confidently.

The moment passed, and the dust settled. And as the air cleared, those in the office door saw that, while there were many men lying helpless on the floor, their numbers did not include any of the trio who had escaped from the shackles! Jim was in the act of flinging an elbow into one man's ribs, Artie was clobbering another man over the head with his walking stick, and even young Danny had picked up a slat from a broken barrel and was using it as a weapon to fend off one of his former comrades in crime.

"What?" cried Sœur Mathilde. _"Mais non! C'est impossible!"_

The Boss glared at her for one piercing second, then waved his Big Dogs forward. "Get them!" he ordered. "Dead or alive makes no difference to me. Just get them!"

"Yes sir, Boss!" Bruno and Deke rushed out into the battle.

"You too, Duffy. And you, Haricot! Get out there as well!"

The pair nodded and obeyed.

Now the Boss spotted Pierre. "You too. Go help them."

Pierre blinked and gaped. "M-me?"

"Yes, you! Get out there and make yourself useful!" The Boss grabbed him and gave him a hard shove out into the fray.

The Big Dogs split up, Deke going after Jim and Bruno after Artie. The other pair also split up, with Duffy heading for Artie and Haricot for Jim. "There won't be anything of him left!" Haricot complained as the packers and movers swarmed the agent.

"Nothing left for _you_, you mean," Deke growled back. "He's all mine. I've got a score to settle with him."

"_I've _got a score to settle," Haricot snarled in return. "You back off and wait your turn. And you!" he boomed at the crowd attacking Jim. "Everyone out of my way. _Move!"_

The swarm, seeing an angry Haricot bearing down on them, wisely moved out of his way, leaving Jim suddenly with no one to fight. But only for a moment, for here came Haricot, charging toward the agent with murderous intent.

Pierre stumbled out into the middle of the warehouse, took a furtive glance back toward the office, and as soon as the Boss was no longer looking his way, he dashed behind a stack of boxes and being sidling for the side door.

Artie had his hands full even before Bruno and Duffy showed up. He laid about himself with the walking stick with one hand while with the other he turned out the contents of one pocket after another, tossing out rubber balls that glued men's shoes to the floor, a glass orb that cracked open and spewed forth tear gas — that one he was careful to throw far from himself and from Jim — and even a handful of children's jacks and marbles that had his opponents hopping and skidding.

And then Bruno arrived. He snagged Artie by the shoulder, spun him around, and grabbed the walking stick to wrench it from Artie's hand.

That only worked halfway. Now Bruno was holding most of the length of walking stick, while Artie held in his hand a wicked-looking short sword.

"_En garde_," said Artie.

"On what?" said Bruno.

"Oh, get out of me way!" called Duffy. He shoved Bruno to one side and yanked the policeman's nightstick from his side — and lo and behold, he pressed a button and unsheathed a hidden sword from within it as well!

Both men fell into the fencer's stance, and with the _zhing _of metal against metal, the duel commenced.

Danny peered out at all the fighting from his place of concealment, glad no one had spotted him again, abashed that the two agents were in the fight and he wasn't. He looked around, trying to find something he could do to help. "Oh, wait!" he said, intrigued. "That looks promising!"

Jim smiled at the onrushing Haricot. "Well, if it isn't my old friend the toothless green bean again," he said.

Haricot's eyes blazed. Furious, he leapt at Jim, ready to pulverize the smaller man.

Jim stood his ground just long enough for his opponent to be fully committed to the trajectory he was taking — and suddenly he wasn't there anymore. As Jim dove and rolled to his feet again a couple of yards to the left, Haricot tried to change course.

He failed. He did, however, manage to destroy an elegant blue-and-white vase the packers had been about to hide inside a beer barrel just before the fight broke out.

On the sidelines, the Boss screeched in agony. "Get him! Stop him! That vase was worth a lot of money! Stop James West!"

Danny slipped along behind the crates near the wall. He had found a length of rope, and though he wasn't quite sure what to do with it, he was pretty sure either Mr West or Mr Gordon would find it useful. The kid paused to peek out between two stacks, his face pale as he watched the fight.

He wasn't the only one watching. A ring of sorts was surrounding the swordsmen as the packers and movers yelled their support of Duffy. "Quite a fan club you've got here," Artie commented.

"Yes, all for me and none for you," said Duffy. "They'll be ecstatic when I skewer you!"

"Well, we'll just see who winds up as a shish kebab," said Artie as the pair continued to circle each other, blades occasionally clashing as they felt each other out.

Pierre was slinking along behind some crates, keeping an eye out for the Boss. The side door was nearly in reach! But it was a strange thing that the barkeep noticed just then. Why was he smelling patchouli? No, he had to be imagining things, that was all. He peeked around the corner of the next crate.

"Yah!" Danny DuPree was just coming around that corner from the other way, so close that the two of them nearly bumped noses. Pierre backpedaled rapidly, almost fell, then scrambled up to hurry back the way he'd come.

"Oh no, you don't!" Danny snapped. "I've got a bone to pick with you!" He swung the rope in his hands even though there was no loop in the end and he'd never attempted to lasso anything in his life.

Not that it mattered. He also didn't have the presence of mind to hold on to his end of the rope. The entire length of the thick heavy rope flew from his hands and hit the fleeing man in the back, knocking him over. Before Pierre could wrestle his way free of the rope again, Danny leapt on him and grabbed him by the collar. "You!" he growled. "You pretended to be my friend with all those free drinks, then turned me in to the Boss! I oughta whale you as bad as Mugs and the others whaled me!"

"No, no, Danny, c'mon!" Pierre held his hands up pleadingly. "The Boss said I had to do it. How was I supposed to tell him No?"

Danny paused, scowling. "Well…"

"Yeah, you see? You wouldn't have been able to get out of it either. I was just following orders, Danny!"

"Yeah? Like you were following orders just now?"

"Huh?"

Danny smirked. "The Boss told you to make yourself useful, and seems to me all you were doing was sneaking off for the exit. I may not be out there either, but at least I'm trying to find a way to help my side!"

"But, but, Danny…"

"Oh, shut up," said Danny, and he belted Pierre one right across the chops.

The Boss, furious, whirled toward Sœur Mathilde. "Is there not something you can do?" he growled. "West and Gordon must be stopped!"

"I… I do not understand," the old woman wheezed. "I used the magical mist and…"

"Perhaps your magical mist is not as magical as you claimed!" the Boss fumed. "Now, do something! Get your bag of fancy tricks and bring those men to their knees!"

"_Oui, oui_. At once!" As the Boss turned his attention back to the fight, studiously ignoring anything that was now behind his back, Sœur Mathilde fled into the office and rushed to the table upon which she had been dealing out the tarot when the commotion outside had caught the attention of all those who had been in this room. She grabbed up her carpetbag from the floor and began rummaging through it, muttering to herself. What was she to use, what did she yet have that would overpower those implausible prisoners? They had been hit by the full force of her magical mist, yet had not succumbed? Inconceivable!

Behind her Sœur Mathilde heard the door close firmly, followed by a scraping sound. What had scraped across the floor she could not imagine, but her thoughts were only on the contents of her carpetbag. "It will be but a moment, _monsieur!" _she called. "My magic will not fail you again; you will see!"

"Oh, but you've already done quite enough. More than enough," came a strange voice from behind her. A strange voice, yes — and a woman's voice!


	17. Act Four, Part Four

**Act Four, Part Four**

Jim West charged into the area where the packers had been working. If the loss of the vase made the masked Boss hopping mad, how much more rage could Jim induce in the leader of the smuggling gang by leading Haricot the bull right into the center of the china shop?

And the big man followed right after him, shoving boxes and barrels out of his way to the accompaniment of the sound of multitudes of fragile items clinking and shattering.

"No! _No!" _screamed the Boss. "Haricot, you're destroying everything! Get out of there!"

By this time, however, the only thing the toothless green bean could see or hear was James West dancing backwards in front of him. He slogged still further into the trove of valuables, making grab after grab for the agent, his every fruitless effort serving only to make him more and more livid. "I'll kill you!" Haricot snarled. "I'll squash you like a bug!" He slammed a hand down on a table, sending every bit of a priceless china tea service upon it bounding into the air to smash on the floor.

The Boss was by now nigh to tearing his hair out in his wrath; the red his natural face was turning showed clearly through the white areas of his mask. He bellowed again and again at Haricot, trying to call him back out of the treasures the man was blindly pulverizing — but all to no avail. Seething, the Boss glared around at what remained of his men, spotted one in particular, and crooked a finger at him, calling him over to issue him new orders. "And quickly!" he added.

Sœur Mathilde whirled and stood in shock, one hand still buried in the depths of the carpetbag, as she took in the sight of a straight-backed chair jammed up under the doorknob, efficiently locking the door closed, while closer to her, right in the middle of the office with a small but deadly derringer in hand, stood the woman Duffy had brought in.

"Who?" Sœur Mathilde stammered. "How…?"

The woman merely smiled. "You're under arrest," she said.

"But… but how is it that you are awake?"

Miss Collingwood obligingly shifted the derringer to her left hand in order to produce a blue bandanna from within the cuff of her left sleeve. She wafted the bandanna in the air, releasing a strong and musky scent. "Patchouli," she said. "Mr Gordon discovered it's as effective an antidote as the one you give your men. When Duffy used the knock-out powder on me, it happened that when I fell, I landed with my nose right by this cloth which I'd tucked into my sleeve." She put the cloth away and switched the gun to her right hand again. "Now. Whatever you may have in that carpetbag, you won't be using it anymore. Give me the bag. You're under arrest." Miss Collingwood held out her empty hand.

Sœur Mathilde stared for a moment in continued disbelief. Then, her face crumpling into a mask of tragedy, she withdrew her hand from the depths of the carpetbag, closed the bag, and held it out.

Miss Collingwood took a step forward and reached for the handles. To her shock, the old woman jerked the bag back and threw a handful of powder into her face, muttering something ancient and foreign.

"A… a_choo! _Aaaa_choo! _Oh no, you shan't stop me with a silly handful of — a_choo! _— of sneezing powder! Give me the — a_choo! _— bag!"

"You want it?" Sœur Mathilde sneered. "You may have it!" And she slung the bag with all her might, knocking the derringer from Miss Collingwood's hand and sending the gun skittering across the floor.

Again the blades clashed, and Duffy began to grin. It was the sight just beyond the ersatz policeman's shoulder, however, that caught Artie's attention: one of the workers in the circle of Duffy's adoring fans nudged the fellow next to him and pointed at something behind Artie.

Interesting. And come to think of it, what had become of the Big Dog who had made off with the sheath of the sword cane? Well, no time like the present to find out!

Artie lunged, made a big show of stumbling, and with a cry of "My ankle!" he collapsed on the floor. The _swish _of something whizzing by right over his head told him he'd timed it perfectly. Artie rolled over to find Bruno standing over him, the sheath in his hands and a look of astonishment on his face that was rapidly being replaced by one of grim fury. The man lifted the sheath to bash it over Artie's head.

Only to find that Artie's sword was in the way. The agent parried the attack, sent the sheath spinning from Bruno's hand, and followed it up a split second later with a kick to the Big Dog's knee. Now it was Bruno who collapsed on the floor as Artie rolled once more and scrambled back upright just as Duffy leapt over his fallen comrade to continue the duel.

Danny was done now using his length of rope to tie up Pierre. Hearing the latest commotion from the duel, the kid peered out from behind some boxes just in time to see Artie disarm Bruno, sending the sheath of the sword cane flying. It clattered to the floor a few feet beyond his hiding spot and lay there invitingly.

"If it's a good enough weapon for Bruno, it's good enough for me," Danny muttered to himself. He waited, watching, until he thought no one would see him, then darted out and grabbed up the sheath.

And just as his hand closed on the sheath, a big rough hand closed on Danny's wrist. Uh-oh.

Miss Collingwood wrenched the bandanna out of her sleeve and pressed it over her nose and mouth, trying to quell the violent sneezing. Through watering eyes she scanned the floor; what had become of her derr… There!

But Sœur Mathilde had spotted it too. Dropping the carpetbag, the older woman sprang for the gun, trying to get a hand on it, even as Miss Collingwood also leapt for it, trying to keep her opponent from grabbing it. And just as the one's fingers touched it, the other's foot kicked it away.

Sœur Mathilde shoved the younger woman violently, then snarled her fingers into Miss Collingwood's hair and yanked with all her might. Miss Collingwood tried to twist her way free of that dogged grip, and when that failed, she stomped on Sœur Mathilde's foot — hard.

That did not fail. Her hair free again, Miss Collingwood hurried after her gun. It was in a corner of the room now. She reached for it…

Suddenly Sœur Mathilde was there ramming into her, knocking her away from the gun and into the tarot table. Miss Collingwood grabbed at the table to keep herself from falling over.

And her hand fell on something on the tabletop. She grabbed it up and rushed after the older woman, caught her by the arm and swung her around, then lifted her impromptu weapon and thrust it onto Sœur Mathilde's face.

"My tarot!" the woman cried. "Give those to me. You mustn't touch them!"

"You want them? Here they are!" Bending the deck as if she were about to shuffle them, Miss Collingwood riffled the cards, launching them in a stream right into Sœur Mathilde's eyes. Instantly, instinctively, those eyes shut as Sœur Mathilde flailed her hands in front of her face, batting the onslaught of cards away.

And that's when Miss Collingwood decked her in a different fashion, this time with a good solid uppercut.

"Haricot!" Deke stamped into the midst of the packers' area and tried to get the angry bull's attention. "Haricot, you're breaking everything! The Boss says…"

Haricot turned a glare at Deke and shoved him away.

"Oh no, you don't!" Deke grabbed his arm. "Now you listen! The Boss says…"

"What do you care what the Boss says, Green Bean?" Jim interjected. "I'm right here. You'd have to be half blind to miss me."

Haricot snarled and shook off Deke's hand, and waded into the tables once more.

"You moron!" Deke hollered. "The Boss says for you to go over to that end of the packing area and I'll take this end! West'll be trapped between us, and if he tries to get out of the tables at all, _then _we'll get him. So just…"

With a roar like a bull gator, Haricot whirled on Deke and fetched him a backhanded wallop then sent the last of the Big Dogs flying. Deke crashed into a crate full of hay-packed china, shattering both crate and contents. He rolled over, trying to get his arms and legs under him.

Then he either thought better of it, or else he thought nothing more at all, for Deke collapsed to lay as still as the fragments of porcelain scattered on the floor all around him.

This, Artie thought, was getting old in a hurry. Not that he didn't like fencing — far from it! — and if he'd only had Duffy to contend with, that would be just fine. The surrounding fan club, however, had decided to follow in Bruno's footsteps and intervene in the duel, and that was like being nibbled to death by hamsters. Every so often, usually just as he was getting the better of Duffy, someone would dart in and punch him in the arm or try to trip him up. The fact that the others couldn't seem to keep a poker face whenever that happened was what had saved Artie so far. And now that three of the interlopers had earned some brand-new gashes for their troubles, the others were beginning to show a bit more respect for a man wielding a sword.

But he was getting annoyed with having to keep on guard from all quarters. It was high time, Artie decided, to get rid of the audience. He dipped his fingers into the waistband of his pants, fishing for a smoke bomb.

Haricot turned back from dealing with Deke, a satisfied grin on his face — and instantly the grin evaporated. Where was West? The big man had looked away only long enough to see where the Big Dog had landed. How could West have disappeared so quickly?

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Ah, there he was! Haricot whirled.

No, that wasn't West! A china doll was dangling from a cord, bumping him in the shoulder. Haricot traced the cord with his eyes, noticing how it looped over a rafter, then descended again to the far side of a neighboring table. He saw the cord twitch as someone tugged on it, making the doll dance. Where the cord went after it vanished beyond the table top he couldn't fathom, but surely it had to go under the table; that was the only thing that made sense.

Haricot flipped the table over, ignoring the screech from the Boss. Yes, there was the cord! It ran all the way under the table and came out again on this side.

Right behind him.

Haricot spun. Yes, there was West! Haricot saw him only for the briefest of moments before the agent's hands slapped in to box the big man's ears. Haricot howled and lunged at West, for the first time in this fight actually managing to lay a hand on him. He grabbed the agent's shoulders.

The agent seized Haricot's shoulders as well and fell backwards, yanking the big man after him. A foot came up and booted Haricot in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of him and sending the man sailing up and over West — to land head-first in a large barrel. The barrel ruptured, sending staves flying in all directions. Haricot, like Deke before him, tried to rise again, only to find that in his case he had gone partway through the iron hoop around the top of the barrel when he'd landed. It was now lodged around his torso, pinning his arms neatly to his sides.

He wasn't going anywhere.

Jim came to his feet and dusted himself off, then went over to check on Deke. Oh yes, he was still out. Jim turned now to see how Artie was doing.

And froze.

Oh, marvelous, thought Artie with frustration. He'd run out of smoke bombs! Not only that, but the members of the fan club were no longer whispering and laughing together. Instead, they were all staring quietly with wide eyes at something behind Artie. Even Duffy suddenly looked past his opponent and dropped his guard in surprise. What could be back there? Artie shot a glance over his shoulder.

And his heart sank. Danny!

There! Miss Collingwood leaned back and admired her handiwork. Sœur Mathilde was now propped up in the Boss' best chair behind the desk, her wrists chained together by a pair of handcuffs laced through the arm of the chair. The woman was still out cold, thank goodness. Miss Collingwood ran a hand over her badly-abused coiffure and wished for a mirror to be able to repair the damage.

Oh, but that was curious! All the noise of battle from outside the office had abruptly died away. What could be going on out there? Cautiously Miss Collingwood pulled the straight-backed chair out from under the doorknob and eased the door open a crack.

There was Danny, looking understandably miserable, for behind him was the Boss, proudly smiling upon all he surveyed, one hand holding fast to the kid's arm, the other pressing the barrel of a gun to Danny's temple. "There!" said the Boss. "Now that I have everyone's attention, we shall put an end to this. No more fighting, no more destruction. No more West, no more Gordon, and no more Danny DuPree — beginning with Danny." He drew back the hammer on the gun.

Jim shot Artie a look, and read from Artie's face in return that his partner had used up all his little specialties and no longer had anything up his sleeve. Jim himself was too far away to be able to rush the Boss before he could fire that gun. But perhaps a distraction…

Artie had reached the same conclusion. He dropped the short sword to the floor with a clatter, then raised his hands. "Now, now, let's not be hasty!" he said loudly, capturing the Boss' attention and everyone else's as well. "I'm sure if we just sit down and talk this out, we can come to a reasonable solution like civilized men and…"

The Boss burst out laughing. "Reasonable solution! I am going to kill you, Mr Gordon. You, and this boy, and Mr West as wel… Stop right there!" For as the Boss mentioned Jim's name, his eyes had darted in that direction and caught Jim silently slipping closer. Moving the cocked gun from the side of Danny's head, the Boss aimed it at Jim. "I'll kill you right now. It will be a pleasure." His finger started to tighten on the trigger.

"No, wait!" cried Artie. "If you kill us now, you'll never find out!"

That piqued the Boss' interest. He tipped the gun toward the ceiling and turned back to Gordon. "Find out what?"

Artie had slammed his hands over his mouth, and darted a horrified look Jim's way. Jim scowled at him. "Don't you do it, Artie! Don't say another word!" he growled.

"Find out what?" the Boss reiterated. And now the gun was pointing at Artie's head.

"Ah…" Again Artie darted a look at Jim. "I… We were specifically told to keep this a secret from you."

The Boss smiled. "And now you'll tell me or die."

"I…" Artie's face twisted desperately. "It's… about the shipment…"

"No, Artie!"

"_What _shipment?"

"Of, er… gold. Fif… fifteen hundred pounds of gold…"

"Artie!"

"I'm sorry, Jim!"

A general susurration rustled through Brambleglen, the word "Gold!" echoing and reechoing among the remaining members of the gang. "Gold! Fifteen hundred pounds!"

"And when and where is this shipment going to be, gentlemen? Speak up quickly or the kid gets it!" The Boss jammed the gun to Danny's head again. Then he looked at the boy and frowned. "What are you doing? Get your hand out of there!"

Eyes wide, Danny obeyed, slowly drawing his closed hand back out of his pants pocket.

"What do you have there? What's in your hand? Show me!" the Boss demanded.

Again Danny complied, turning his palm up and opening his fingers. There in his palm lay a large and quite ordinary-looking silver dollar.

The Boss stared at it, then glared at the quaking young Danny. "You! You think you can… can _bribe _me? Is that it? You think I'll spare your worthless life for a stinking, measly silver _dollar?" _Suddenly the hand gripping Danny's arm let go of him so that the Boss could snatch the coin out of the kid's hand. "Fifteen hundred pounds of gold, and you think you can buy your life for _this?" _The Boss shook the coin in Danny's face, then flung it as hard as he could toward the far wall.

Instantly Danny turned and dove to the floor in the opposite direction. Jim too was on the move, charging toward the Boss. The masked man started to aim the gun at Danny, then in confusion tried to bring the gun to bear on Jim instead.

At that moment the coin hit the floor. _FOOM!_ With a brilliant flash of light and a thick pungent cloud of smoke and dust, that entire portion of the building — roof, walls, and all — caved in. The rest of Brambleglen shook as well, knocking most of the men within it right off their feet.

The Boss, by some miracle, managed to stay on his feet and in possession of the gun — until Jim barreled into him. The two hit the floor together, rolling, tumbling, slugging and pummeling each other.

Artie turned and punched Duffy in the jaw, then scooped up his own sword and Duffy's as well before rushing to Danny's side. "You ok, kid?"

"I… I think so." Danny winced as Artie helped him back to his feet. "Ow…" the kid complained, feeling of the arm he'd landed on. "That's gonna make a bruise."

"Here, hold this." Artie slapped Duffy's sword into Danny's hand. "I've got a few arrests to make."

"Yeah, yeah, sure… Only, uh… There, uh… there wasn't really a fifteen hundred pound gold shipment coming into town, was there?"

Artie grinned. "No, of course not."

Slowly Danny nodded. "Ok. Just, uh, just checking." The kid sighed and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Then he spotted the gaping hole where an impressive amount of the building simply wasn't. "Holy… Wait! That, that coin Mr West gave me did all that?"

"Mm-hmm." Artie was lining up the remaining men, all of them as shaken at the massive destruction as young Danny himself.

"But… But I was carrying that thing in my pocket all this time! I coulda been killed!" Danny protested.

Artie shot him a wink and a grin. "Glad you weren't," he said and went back to organizing his prisoners.

A shriek echoed through what was left of Brambleglen, seizing everyone's attention. Artie and Danny whirled to see Jim, his one fist gripping the Boss' jacket, his other fist drawn back ready to fly. The Boss was holding up his hands in surrender, the mask ripped half off his head. And beyond both, standing in the doorway of the office, was Miss Collingwood, a familiar blue bandanna tied over the lower half of her face, her hands pressed over her mouth. "But… but that's impossible!" the woman cried out. "He… No, the Boss… he _can't _be Chief O'Mara!"

"What?" Artie hurried over, Danny right on his heels. "Chief O'Mara?"

Jim ripped the rest of the mask away, exposing the very face the agents recognized from all their dealings with the chief of the New Orleans police: a lean face, with hazel eyes under drooping eyelids, a face that looked remarkably like that of Secret Service agent Frank Harper. But colder. Harder. As they all stared at the Boss, he glared back at them disdainfully.

Artie peered more closely. "Well, that would explain why the police could never capture the gang, with the chief himself as the gang's leader."

"But I can't believe it!" Miss Collingwood said emphatically. "I've known Chief O'Mara for years! He's… he's _nothing _like this! This simply cannot be possible!"

"And it isn't," said Jim. "Chief O'Mara was with us when we raided the warehouse last night, and this man was there at the same time."

"Unless someone else was wearing the mask then," said Artie slowly.

The face glared at him. "_No one _else wears my mask! No one else would dare risk my wrath. Especially not dear Liam!" He spat out the name as if it left a disgusting taste in his mouth.

"Liam O'Mara," said Miss Collingwood. "That's the chief's name, yes. But… who are you?"

The Boss leered at her. "Oh please! Don't be dense!"

"Oh, no no no!" said Artie in sudden horror. "No no, not the evil twin brother! _Please! _Not that again!"

The Boss' eyes blazed. "Brothers! Don't insult me! All my life I've put up with all the family holding perfect Liam up to me as a shining example of a paragon of virtue. The one thing that I always cherished about the insufferable situation was the fact that at least we weren't brothers!"

"Then who are you?" asked Jim.

"I am _Phelan _O'Mara! The black sheep — or to translate my name, the black _wolf _of the family! Not Liam's brother, thank you very much. He's my accursed older cousin. Our fathers are brothers and our mothers sisters, and…"

"Wait a minute," said Danny. "Cousins? You're telling us that you and the police chief are…" He shook his head in amazement. "…_identical cousins?"_

"Preposterous!" cried Artie. "Granted, double cousins might well be as alike as brothers and sisters, but…" He shook his head as well, completely at a loss for words.

"It's… like a work of fiction!" said Miss Collingwood.

The Boss glared at all of them. "Are you calling me a liar? I may be a smuggler and a murderer, but no man calls me a liar, not to my face! I came here deliberately to set up my kingdom of crime, just so I could see perfect Liam's face when I and my spies in his precious police department destroyed his reputation! But you government agents ruined it!"

Artie gave a smug grin and glanced at Jim. "Of course!" he replied. "It's what we do best!"

**End of Act Four**


	18. Tag

**Tag**

"It's good to see your lovely face again, Miss Collingwood," said Col Richmond. "The sneezing powder finally wore off?"

"Yes, at very long last! I'm just glad I had, ah, borrowed the bandanna from Mr Gordon. The patchouli with which he'd soaked the cloth seemed to work just as well against the sneezing powder as it did against the knock-out powder, but for hours, every time I took the bandanna off, I would be seized by another sneezing fit!" She took a small sip of her sherry and added, "I'm so greatly relieved to have _that _over with."

"I'm sure you are," said Col Richmond. He sipped from his own glass as well, which contained not sherry, but bourbon, then sighed. "Pity about Chief O'Mara though. Once he learned that his own cousin was the leader of the smuggling gang, he was so embarrassed, he resigned on the spot."

"There was no need for him to do that," said Jim. "He had nothing to do with his cousin's scheme."

"Yes," said Artie, "and Duffy is so busy singing his head off, we'll soon have everyone in the police department who was secretly working for the smuggling ring safely behind bars."

"And me?" said Danny. "What becomes of me?" He was sitting on one of the gold sofas in the varnish car, looking as nervous as could be to be meeting with the head of the Secret Service himself. The young man had already spilled some of his glass of bourbon onto the low table between the two sofas.

"You, Danny?" Col Richmond, the aforementioned head of the Secret Service, rose from his seat on the other sofa and reached into his pocket. "For you, Dan… ah… Mr DuPree, I have this. Straight from Washington." He produced a sealed envelope and passed it to the apprehensive young man.

Danny's hands shook badly as he set down his glass to accept the letter. He broke the seal and pulled a sheet of parchment from within the envelope, scanned the writing on the letter quickly, gulped, then with bulging eyes read it through again more carefully. "A… a… P-p-presidential pardon?" he squeaked.

"Full clemency, son, in recognition of your invaluable aid in putting a stop to this smuggling ring." Col Richmond smiled and stretched out a hand.

Danny's face fell a bit and he started to return the letter, but the colonel chuckled. "No, no," he said. "I'm offering to _shake _your hand. The hand of a free man."

"Oh!" Danny grinned as he took the colonel's hand and shook it, then that of Jim West, followed by Artemus Gordon's.

Miss Collingwood rose from her chair and came over as well. She set down her sherry, then held out her own hand, saying, "I need to apologize, Danny. I misjudged you — badly. I want you to know that I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart for all those things I assumed about you, and… well… Will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you? I need you to forgive me! Probably every single thing you assumed about me, I assumed about you as well!"

"Mm. True." She smiled brightly. "But at least you didn't shoot me!" And they shook hands.

Everyone returned to the positions and drinks they'd held previously, with Jim leaning against the desk behind the colonel's sofa and Artie lounging at the mantle, as Danny carefully put the pardon back into its envelope and stowed it in his pocket as if it were made of pure gold.

"I do have a question, Miss Collingwood."

"Yes, Mr Gordon?"

"Right after Duffy brought you in at Brambleglen, and just as Jim was unlocking our shackles — was it my imagination, or did you wink at us?"

She smiled. "Indeed I did wink. Duffy had knocked me out, but only momentarily until I got a good whiff of the patchouli in the blue bandanna."

"Which you had pilfered."

"Well… yes."

"And then you played possum?"

"Yes. I had, ah, seen someone else pretend to still be under the influence of a knock-out gas well after it had worn off, and chose to take a page from his book." Smiling broadly, she inclined her head towards Artie and lifted her glass. He returned the salute in kind.

"And while the rest of us were fighting," said Jim, "you went into the office after the little voodoo queen."

"As soon as the Boss turned his back, yes." Miss Collingwood chuckled and rolled her eyes. "But oh, that little old lady proved to be a lot tougher than I'd expected!"

"Still, you managed to knock her out in the end."

She chuckled. "Oh yes. And regarding that, they do say that turnabout is fair play!"

"Hear, hear." And they all lifted their glasses and drank.

"But there's something I don't understand," said Danny. "Weren't you tied up when Duffy dumped you on the floor?"

She nodded. "Yes, with the strap of my own handbag. Which only goes to show that the straps of ladies' handbags are not necessarily made of the sort of material into which one can tie a knot and rest assured it won't slip undone all on its own. Why, by the time we reached Brambleglen, I was having to hold the loops around my wrists in place myself, and pray that Duffy wouldn't notice!"

"Well!" said Col Richmond. He set down his glass and came to his feet. "All in all, I'd say that this was a successful first case for the team of West, Gordon, and Collingwood."

Jim and Artie exchanged glances. "Then, ah… then you're going to go through with this?" said Artie.

"Of course!" said the colonel. "The three of you have shown you work very well together. And until and unless you become a bit less accident-prone, Artemus, you _need _a full-time private nurse!"

"Oh. Ah…" said Artie, then cast a foundering look Jim's way and subsided.

Miss Collingwood, however, rose from her chair and crossed to the mantel where she looked up at Artie with large and wounded eyes. "You don't want me here?" she said.

"Oh. Ah… It's… it's not so much a matter of not wanting you here. It's… it's… well, _propriety! _A young woman like you, a pair of bachelors like us, traveling all over the country on a train together like this. What will people think?"

She shrugged. "I suppose they'll think I've got the best job a girl could wish for, and likely a good many of them will be simply green with envy."

"Oh. Ah…" Again Artie threw Jim a look begging for help, only to see a smile on Jim's face that told him as plain as day that he was going to get to sink or swim on his own on this one.

"Oh. Ah… Miss… Miss Collingswood, I really don't think…"

"Yes, Mr Gordson?"

Everyone in the room — everyone male, that is — dropped his jaw and popped his eyes at that last remark. "Mr _Gordson?" _the colonel exploded. "Where did that come from?"

Smiling sweetly, she responded, "Mr Gordson knows."

"Oh. Ah…" Artie thumped at his nose with a forefinger. "Well sir, I, uh… I seem to have this bad habit of mispronouncing Miss Colling, ah, wood's name, you see."

"So I told him if he did it again, I would certainly call his attention to it."

"Which you did. In spades."

Danny over on the sofa took a slug of his drink and chuckled. A bit tipsy from the good bourbon now that he was no longer afraid of his fate, he grinned and said, "Hey, you could call her Calamity Jane! It fits 'er, and it's a good sight easier to say than, uh, than Collingsward… Collinsway… No, Columbine… uh…"

Her eyes flashing, she planted his fists on her hips and stormed, "It is _not! _It only takes four syllables to say Miss Collingwood, but Calamity Jane is _five _syllables long!"

"He has a point, though," said Jim. "Even drunk, the kid over there can say Calamity Jane."

"True," said Artie. "Your own name he messed up worse than I ever have."

Miss Collingwood stood there for a long moment, hands on hips, fuming. "Well," she said at last, "I suppose… as we're to be working together, you know… I suppose the two of you might simply call me Ellen."

Artie bowed his head to her. "Ellen. And in that case, you may call me Artemus."

With a twinkle in his eye, Jim said, "But Ellen is two syllables long. We should call you Jane."

"_What? _Oh, you will not!" She gaped at Jim in horror.

"Actually, Jim," said Artie, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree with Miss Coll… er, with Ellen on this one. You see, the names Jane and James sound too much alike. You'd never know which of you I was talking to! On the other hand," and now he turned to the young lady, "I'm sure I'll come up with a suitably annoying nickname for you one of these days, my dear. And in the meantime…" He took her hand. "…Ellen is a perfectly lovely name for a perfectly lovely woman." Smiling, he leaned over her hand and kissed it.

Watching his partner's smooth moves, Jim said quietly to Col Richmond, "Are you absolutely sure you want to send that defenseless young woman out on the road with the likes of Artie and me?"

"Yes, I am — and she's hardly defenseless," the colonel replied, "as you can see for yourself."

Jim certainly could see. For right in the middle of the kiss on the hand, Miss Collingwood grabbed Artie's arm, whipped around backwards, and flipped him over her shoulder to land flat on his back on the parlor floor as neatly as Jim had ever pulled the same surprise maneuver on his unwitting partner.

As Jim and Danny stared at Ellen Collingwood, and as Artie blinked up at her and shook the cobwebs out of his head, Col Richmond raised his glass and bragged, "Top of her class in karate, that girl!" Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, "Bosley Cranston taught her everything he knows."

**FIN**

_Author's note: Chief O'Mara was named for Chief O'Hara in the 60's Batman tv series, another favorite show from my childhood. O'Mara's (and his cousin's) strong resemblance to the versatile actor who played Frank Harper (and many other characters) in The Wild Wild West is a reference to another character William Schallert played way back when, in a show that featured — what else? — identical cousins. *wink*_

_As for Danny DuPree, you might want to picture him as a very young Dirk Benedict. That's what I did while writing him._


End file.
